The Cajun Cowboy

  Remy laughed. “I guess she told us.”

  “Oh, yeah! Looks like I got me a regular Charmaine Vincent Peale here.”

  She set aside her basket of eggs and poked a forefinger into his chest. “I’m not your anything yet, mister.”

  Raoul homed in on one word. He was probably grinning like an idiot. “Yet?”

  “A slip of the tongue,” she said as a becoming blush pinkened her cheeks. And her bare neck. And her bare shoulders. And her bare arms. Hell, probably some places he had no business imagining as pink or bare. Yet. He wondered idly, or perhaps not so idly, if said skin still smelled like peaches.

  “You smell like peaches,” Charmaine said, as if reading his mind.

  “Tante Lulu plied me with Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  “Well, that’s just peachy.” She crossed her eyes at him.

  Remy looked from him to her, then back again, and let out a hoot of laughter. “Tante Lulu is going to have such a good time with you two.” Once he settled down, wiping tears from his eyes, he asked, “Did you contact Frank Zerby, that detective Luc recommended?”

  “I did, and he seemed to think he could help me. He offered to take on my case on a contingency basis, letting me pay him off once I’m on my feet again.”

  “You didn’t tell me that you called a detective,” Charmaine complained.

  “You didn’t ask. And besides, it’s none of your business. Yet.”

  She made a tsk-ing sound while he turned to address Remy again. “Zerby homed in right away on the undercover detective who claimed to be buying drugs from me. Doug Gaudet.”

  “I know. Luc contacted Ambrose Mouton, a Houma cop who’s a longtime friend of his. Rosie’s going to do some investigating of Gaudet behind the scenes. Nothing official.”

  “I’ve met Rosie. He’s a good man.”

  “There’s something else, Rusty. You may not be aware of this, but I work with the DEA. Mostly big drug busts that require the use of my copter and knowledge of the bayous. Your arrest had nothing to do with the DEA, but maybe I can do some behind-the-scenes investigating of my own. The people involved in drug enforcement have a quiet network of their own. It wouldn’t hurt to try, I reckon. What do you think?”

  “I appreciate your help, but why would you do that for me? You and Luc . . . all of you?”

  “Because you’re family, you thickheaded fool,” Charmaine answered for her brother. She was shaking her head at him as if he were a . . . thickheaded fool.

  “Only till the divorce is final,” he pointed out.

  Charmaine’s face went from pink to bright red. First, she sliced him with a withering glower. Then, she slid off the bale of hay, grabbed her basket of eggs, and proceeded to stomp out of the barn.

  As they both watched Charmaine’s rear sway from side to side in her short cutoffs—Remy with amazement, Raoul with appreciation—Remy commented to him, “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a thickheaded fool?”

  “Only St. Jude.”

  Pushing the limits . . .

  Remy left a short time later, wanting to make sure he was home before dark.

  Jimmy was a brat at the dinner table that night.

  Charmaine couldn’t believe that the kid was behaving so badly, especially in front of Tante Lulu, whom he’d just met. He’d apparently been in a snit ever since his father returned him to the ranch that morning. Jimmy had wanted to stay at home and return to his old school and his old friends and probably his old patterns of trouble. When his father had refused, Jimmy had thrown a tantrum, which resulted in Rusty holding him back physically while his father drove off with tears rolling down his agonized face. There had been tears rolling down Charmaine’s face, as well.

  Now, Jimmy refused to eat Tante Lulu’s Catfish Court Bouillion, saying, “I doan like no stinkin’ bottom feeders. And I ’specially doan like no catfish stew. Oooh, is that okra floatin’ in there? Yuck!”

  Charmaine was not fond of okra, either, but it was a staple of Cajun cooking. You could eat around it, without being offensive to the cook.

  And talk about offending the cook! Tante Lulu took great pride in her Catfish Court Bouillion. To call it a mere stew had to be an insult to her culinary pride. But, while everyone else at the table—Charmaine, Rusty, Clarence and Linc—rose to their feet, about to chastise the boy on her behalf, her aunt just raised a halting hand in the air. “Everyone, sit down!” Then to Jimmy, she said, “Thass all right, boy. Have a hissy fit, iffen you wants. Ya doan have ta like everythin’ in the world. Have a piece of bread and butter.”

  Jimmy proceeded to spread about a pound of butter on half a loaf of crusty French bread. Then he wolfed it down with crumbs flying everywhere and butter smeared all over his lips and chin. He was pushing the limits of everyone’s patience, and he did it deliberately.

  Instead of walloping the boy with a wooden spoon, like she would have done to Charmaine or one of her half brothers when they were that age, Tante Lulu just ignored his boorish behavior. But there was an evil glint in her eyes.

  Rusty glanced Charmaine’s way, and their gazes caught and held. He wore a black T-shirt tonight and old Wranglers. His hair remained too long on his neck, but she wasn’t about to suggest that he let her cut it. She didn’t dare get that close to him. Not when the expression in his beautiful eyes was so hungry. Not when she was feeling so hungry herself. And the appetite she referred to had nothing to do with food.

  She’d changed from shorts to jeans before dinner because of the nightime chill, which had hit of a sudden, but she still wore the white blouse with the elastic neckline, which she had noticed Rusty noticing earlier. The capped sleeves weren’t pulled down off her shoulders anymore, but her neck and arms were exposed, and Rusty’s gaze kept drifting to those areas. If she were being honest with herself, she would have to admit that she’d worn it deliberately, without a sweater, which was really more appropriate for the weather. But she’d wanted to tease him. Why, she couldn’t really say.

  It was an impossible situation. Like Thomas Wolfe said long ago, “You can’t go home again.” That was for sure. Not that Rusty is home to me.

  Not exactly.

  Not hardly.

  Well, maybe a teeny tiny bit.

  Aaarrgh!

  A voice in her head said, Ditto on the aaarrgh. Probably that pesky St. Jude again. They now had his statues on the front and back porches thanks to Tante Lulu’s latest addition. He was getting to be a real pain.

  “You two gonna stare at each other googly-eyed forever?” Jimmy asked impudently, jarring them from their erotic eye play.

  Tante Lulu chuckled. Linc and Clarence just grinned.

  “Rusty, you want seconds, yes?” Tante Lulu inquired then.

  Rusty nodded and she ladled more into his soup plate, then handed him a slice of bread, which he buttered sparingly.

  “Clarence, how’s yer rheumatiz?” Tante Lulu asked as she sat down for the first time to take a few bites herself.

  “Not so bad,” Clarence answered. “That liniment you mixed up fer me las’ year fixed it up real good. Does it really have alligator piss in it?”

  Tante Lulu grinned impishly. “I was jist joshin’ you.”

  “Guess ya got me that time,” he said, chortling with glee as he slapped a knee.

  Hmmm. Charmaine hadn’t even realized that Tante Lulu knew Clarence. After all, the Triple L was quite a distance from Bayou Black. But then, Tante Lulu’s traiteur skills had been sought far and wide, especially when she was younger.

  Tante Lulu jumped up and proceeded to give Linc and Clarence seconds, without their even asking. But then, they weren’t protesting. She ignored the sulking Jimmy as if he weren’t even there.

  “Linc, will you come back this evenin’ after chores and play us some of yer music?” Tante Lulu requested.

  Linc sat up straighter. “How’d you know ’bout my music, Miz Rivard?”

  “Why, Charmaine was tellin’ me whilst we were
preparin’ dinner that you play the guitar and write yer own music, jist like one of yer famous ancestors. I’d be pleased to hear you.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’d be pleased to play fer ya.” Linc’s shoulders went back with pride, making Charmaine a little ashamed that she hadn’t asked him to play herself during the past few days. “I’m a bit rusty, though. Don’t be expectin’ much.”

  “All he plays is that blues stuff,” Jimmy complained.

  “What you want him to play, you? That knocker garbage?” If there had been a wooden spoon within reach, she probably would have whacked him this time.

  “Huh?” everyone at the table said.

  “What knocker?” Jimmy asked. “You mean boob? I never heard of boob music.”

  “No, I don’t mean boob,” Tante Lulu said, giving Jimmy a dirty look. “And watch yer mouth, boy. They’s ladies present.”

  Charmaine had been interpreting for Tante Lulu since she was a kid. “I think she means rapper music, not knocker music.”

  “Rap, knock . . . whass the difference?” the old lady asked.

  Jimmy opened his mouth, about to say something, but Linc squeezed his arm in warning.

  “Eat up, honey,” Tante Lulu said to Rusty, patting him on the shoulder as she passed by on her way to the counter. “I got more of that Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake fer dessert. Only good boys what eats their dinner gets to have a sweet afterward.”

  Ah! So that is her game plan with Jimmy. A little sweet revenge, Tante Lulu style.

  “More peaches. Yippee. And, man, I have been a very good boy,” Rusty said to Tante Lulu, but he was looking at Charmaine while he spoke. “Haven’t I, Charmaine?” Then he winked.

  Gawd, I hate it when he winks. Well, not exactly hate. I actually like it too much, and that’s why I hate it. I am not making sense. But then nothing I do makes sense when Rusty is around.

  In the end, the lure of Tante Lulu’s dessert proved too much for Jimmy. “Mebbe I’ll have a little taste of that catfish crap . . . uh, stew,” he offered.

  Tante Lulu poured a huge ladleful into his bowl, including a piece of okra floating on top, and watched as he ate every bite. “Thass a good boy,” she said finally, giving him a little hug from behind. “Now, you wantin’ some dessert or not?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You can call me Tante Lulu like everyone else, or Auntie.”

  The boy beamed at her with adoration, especially after she gave him a generous slice of cake topped with vanilla ice cream.

  “Hey, you didn’t offer me ice cream,” Rusty complained.

  “Mebbe you weren’t that good of a boy.” Tante Lulu glanced pointedly from Charmaine to Rusty. “While I’m here, I might as well put together some of my herbal remedies,” she said in one of her usual swift changes in conversation. “I’m thinking of brewing up some cow-pen tea and some pizzle grease.”

  “Don’t ask,” Charmaine muttered under her breath.

  But of course no one listened.

  “What’s cow-pen tea?” Clarence asked.

  “And pizzle grease?” Jimmy wanted to know.

  Tante Lulu beamed at their interest in her traiteur abilities. “Cow-pen tea is a medicinal tea thass been around fer more than a hundred years. Made from brewing up cow poop, it is. And pizzle grease is the bestest ointment, made of the fat culled from boilin’ up hog pizzles. ’Course cow pizzles would prob’ly work just as good.”

  Four male jaws dropped open.

  “Is she serious?” Rusty whispered to Charmaine.

  She nodded.

  But Tante Lulu heard his remark and said, “Tsk-tsk! Ya shouldn’t be puttin’ down the old remedies. Sometimes they work best.”

  They might work best, but Charmaine was pretty sure that no one sitting at the table would be willing to try them anytime soon.

  After Rusty, Clarence, and Linc took Jimmy out to the barn to feed the horses and do a last-minute check on the herd, she and Tante Lulu did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, chatting the whole while. Then they took cups of coffee out to the back porch to catch up on the news.

  “Seen any of the Dixie mob around here?” Tante Lulu asked.

  “Nope. Knock on wood.”

  “No sense doing that superstitious stuff. St. Jude is the answer. Always.” She glanced over to the statue, which had been moved to the corner of the porch. “What say we build us a grotto to St. Jude tomorrow, right there in middle of the yard? I brought some bedding plants, and we can transplant a few bushes. Good idea, huh?”

  Not a good idea. Rusty will have a fit. “Uh, sure, great idea.”

  “Luc said ta tell ya he would discuss yer situation in detail when he comes on Thursday. I think he has a plan fer repaying the whale.”

  “The shark,” she corrected. “A loan shark.”

  “Why are people always correctin’ me? I knew it was a shark. Geesh!”

  “That’s good news anyway. That Luc has a plan.” Wish I had a plan. For my money woes. For my career. For my life.

  “You sure yer shops are okay without you?”

  Charmaine nodded. “For a short while, they will be. And my two managers can contact me through Luc if there’s a problem.”

  “Mebbe Luc’s plan is to pay off sharkie from the shop profits.”

  “I wish! No, Bobby Doucet made it clear that he wasn’t going to accept any long-term payment plan. And neither was I if that thousand dollar a day interest was piling on.” Between the two shops, she usually pulled in fifty thousand in net profits per year, even after her own generous salary, but that wasn’t enough.

  “You gonna invite yer mother here fer Thanksgiving dinner?”

  Charmaine laughed. “No, I am not. She wouldn’t want to come. I’m not even sure if she’s still in Baton Rouge. Last I heard, she and her boyfriend du jour were talking about opening a male strip club.” That was a year ago, and their meeting had ended in an argument when she’d declined to invest in any more of her mother’s born-to-fail, usually seedy ventures.

  “Really? A male strip club?” Tante Lulu asked with way too much interest.

  “Uh-huh. Chippendudes, or some such thing. Actually, there were supposed to be Chippendolls, too.” Gawd! Charmaine shivered at the mental picture. She’d seen the inside of way too many strip joints over the years. She’d seen the inside of way too many male and female G-strings, too.

  “You should invite her,” Tante Lulu insisted.

  Do you never give up, old lady? “You’ve already invited too many people. There wouldn’t be room for more.”

  “They’s always room for more, honey. And you should call Fleur. She’s still yer mama, no matter what.”

  “Some women give birth, but they don’t have the mother gene. She never wanted a child. She never wanted me. I was a doll for her to dress up as a clone of herself . . . a ten-year-old painted doll in hooker clothes. She thought it was a hoot. The kids at school thought . . .” Charmaine let her words trail off. What is wrong with me? I never talk about that. Old history. Why dredge it up now?

  Tante Lulu reached over and squeezed her hand. “Now, now, sweetie. She caint hurt you anymore.”

  Charmaine swiped at her eyes. Amazing, that her mother still had the ability to hurt her, even when she didn’t even try.

  “Call her, baby. You’ll feel better if you do.”

  Charmaine didn’t see how that was possible. Still, she said, “I’ll think about it.”

  “So, do you still love the cowboy?”

  Oh, boy! Another subject change. And a doozie this time. “Which cowboy?”

  “For shame, girl! They’s only one cowboy you’d be interested in. The one with the mojo.”

  “I thought you told him that he lost his mojo. At least that’s what he told me when he came in for dinner.” She smiled as she remembered the chagrin on Rusty’s face that anyone would think he’d lost his masculine appeal.

  “Hah! That boy’s got mojo coming out his pores. I jist said that to shake him up a bit.
You better lasso him in afore some cowgirl comes along, sees him for the prime animal he is, and ropes him first.”

  Oh, yeah! That’s me. Dale-damn-Evans without herhorse . . . or lasso, for

  that matter.

  “You dint answer my question.”

  I know I didn’t answer your question, you busybody you. I was hoping you’d

  forget. Other old folks get memory loss; you get sharper with age. “I’m not sure

  I ever loved him. I was only nineteen when we were married. What did I know about

  anything?”

  Tante Lulu shrugged. “I doan know ’bout that. You two seemed crazy in love to

  me.”

  “Maybe it was just lust.” Or maybe not.

  “Lust is good, too. Take a word of advice from a meddling old coot. Love is rare

  in this world today. If there’s even the tiniest chance that there’s a spark of love left

  ’tween you two, you’re a fool not to jump on it.”

  Charmaine nodded, not about to argue with that sentiment. The question was: Do

  I still love him?

  Chapter 9

  When curiosity bites you in the butt . . .

  Raoul was approaching the back porch from the side of the house when Tante Lulu asked Charmaine if she still loved him.

  He should have made his presence known. What did it matter if Charmaine did or did not love him? She’d already told him point-blank that she wanted more from a relationship than he could offer. And, hell, he’d be begging for heartache if he got involved with her again. Still, curiosity got the better of him, and he stopped in his tracks, listening.