The Cajun Cowboy

  Me, neither. But I’m sure thinkin’ about it. “Because you’re a born-again virgin?”

  “Yeah.” She grinned at him before turning her attention back to the screen and tap-tap-tapping some more.

  When she yawned widely, he said, “That’s it,” and reached over to take the mouse out of her hand to log off. In the process, his hand brushed hers. He could swear that just the brush of his palm over the back of her hand threw off erotic sparks.

  She turned in her seat to ask, “What are you . . . ?” Her words trailed off as she realized how close his face was to hers.

  As if in slow motion, he noticed the two freckles on her nose, which she always hid with makeup, the widening of her whiskey eyes, which were glazing over now with strong emotion, the parting of her lips.

  She moaned softly.

  That was all the encouragement he needed. Leaning closer still, he pressed his mouth against hers. Not hard. Not gentle. Just a coming-home kind of kiss where body parts once well-attuned acclimated themselves to familiar territory.

  She moaned again and opened her mouth more for his exploration.

  He moaned, too. Into her welcoming mouth. Releasing the mouse, he used both of his hands to frame her face and kiss her more deeply. So powerful was the draw between them that he felt his eyes burn with unshed tears. This was the way it had always been.

  Charmaine ended the kiss, finally, by pressing her hands against his bare chest. His vision blurred, and he was panting like a war-horse.

  “That should not have happened,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “It’s not why I came here tonight.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m only here for a visit.”

  He nodded.

  “We are not going to have sex.”

  He paused, but then he nodded. One word from you, though, and I would be on you like a duck on a June bug.

  She stood and pulled down the hem of her T-shirt, which caused her erect nipples to protrude.

  Raoul knew something important at that moment. Charmaine wasn’t as cool and collected as she pretended.

  “Luc is going to file the divorce papers for us.” She still fidgeted with the T-shirt.

  He nodded. Why is there a lump in my throat? “If it’s what you want.”

  “Of course it is,” she said, but her kiss-wet lips quivered as she spoke. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yeah.” How the hell do I know?

  Charmaine gave him a long, questioning look, as if waiting for something. Then she left.

  He suspected he’d just been given a rare opportunity for a replay in the misbegotten game that was his life. But he had dropped the ball.

  Chapter 4

  Whoopi-ti-yi-yo, for sure . . .

  Trouble hit the next day with a vengeance. Four steer shot between the eyes, and not a clue in sight.

  Raoul and Clarence stood next to a widebed, open-sided truck parked in the middle of the field, which had been brought over by the sheriff’s office an hour ago. The sheriff would be back soon to ask more questions and take the carcasses in for examination, extraction of the bullets and analysis. A sad waste of time on the part of the sheriff’s department. And for Raoul and Clarence when there was so much other work to do. Linc and Jimmy were completing the fence repairs at the opposite end of the ranch, which was where they should be, too.

  And all Raoul could think about was Charmaine.

  He needed to get laid, badly. It had been two long years since he’d been with a woman. That had to be the reason why his ex-wife—he still couldn’t think of Charmaine as his wife—lingered on his mind, like an erotic burr.

  And it wasn’t just sex. She attracted him in the most idiotic ways. He loved watching her prepare a meal. He loved the way she listened so intently to Jimmy’s rambling nonsense. He loved her love of music—all kinds, not just Cajun. He loved her smiles. Hell, he even loved her frowns. Everything she did, she did with passion.

  Something had to give, or he would go bonkers. He shook his head like a wet dog to help him focus.

  “Who do ya think done it?” Clarence asked him as they wrapped a rope around one of the steer.

  Raoul patted it on the head. Poor animal! Mon Dieu! He should be healing animals, not dealing with their deaths. He sighed, then answered. “Got me. But it sure as hell wasn’t a teen prank, like cow tipping, as the sheriff implied.” Next they used a winch and a forklift attached to a tractor to swing the steer up and onto the truck. Raoul exhaled loudly with disgust. “I suspect it’s the same bunch of oil interests that kept pressuring my dad to sell the ranch. Or maybe the people responsible for framing me. Or maybe even the ones who killed my father.”

  “Or mebbe they’re all the same person.”

  “Could be,” Raoul concurred. What a mess!

  “Hard to believe that oil people would go to these extremes, even killing a fella,” Clarence mused.

  “Hey, look at that John Grisham book . . . and movie. Pelican Brief. They were pretty ruthless in there.”

  “Guess so.” Clarence straightened and arched the kinks out of his back. This was really strenuous work for a man his age, though Raoul would never dare tell him that. One time he had dared, and Clarence told him it was better for a man to wear out than to rust out.

  “You really think Charlie mighta been murdered?” Clarence asked.

  Raoul shrugged. “I’m still investigating. Hell, we may never know for sure.”

  “Well, the shootin’ of these animals,” Clarence said, waving a hand at the dead cattle, “I ’spect it’s a warnin’ of sorts.”

  “You’re probably right,” Raoul said with a shrug.

  “On the other hand, mebbe it’s those Mafia hit men come to tweak Charmaine.” Clarence grinned as he spoke, then spit out a long stream of tobacco juice. Apparently, he didn’t consider the loan shark, which Raoul had explained to him, as big a deal as Charmaine did.

  Raoul grinned back at him. “You mean, like The Godfather, where they put the horse’s head in the guy’s bed?”

  “Yessirree. We better warn Charmaine to be on the lookout fer cow parts.” He caught Raoul’s frown, then added, “Then again, mebbe not.”

  “This was a warning for me, not Charmaine,” Raoul insisted. Inside, though, adrenaline shot through his system at the mere prospect that Charmaine might be in real danger. He wouldn’t admit it to her, but he was glad, in a way, that she’d parked herself at the ranch where he could protect her.

  “Yer one lucky fella,” Clarence said then.

  “Huh?” Raoul couldn’t imagine anything about his life the past two years that would fit into the realm of lucky. Lucky to have been convicted of a felony? Lucky to have spent two friggin’ years in the slammer? Lucky to have lost my medical license? Lucky to have lost my father? Lucky to have inherited half of a run-down ranch? Lucky to be climbing the walls with lust?

  “Charmaine,” Clarence explained. “Whooee, she is one fine woman, if ya doan mind my sayin’ so.”

  I do mind your saying so. Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. I’m thinking it enough for both of us. “She’s only here for a visit.”

  “Thass what she tol’ me, but iffen yer the man I think ya are, ya kin change her mind.”

  “Why would I want to do that? No, don’t answer that. Charmaine is soon to be my ex-wife. End of story.” And, frankly, I don’t know what kind of man I am anymore. Or whether I want to change her mind. Who am I kidding? At the least encouragement, I’d be all over her like dew on Dixie.

  “I could give you pointers,” Clarence said. With a little huffing and puffing, they managed to get the second steer up on the truck. Even with the winch and fork, it was hard work lifting these almost two-thousand- pound animals.

  “I beg your pardon,” Raoul said, once he got his breath back.

  “Pointers . . . on how to win Charmaine back.” Clarence spit again. “I was quite the ladies’ man at one time.”

  Bet you d
idn’t chew tobacco then.

  “Oh, doan give me that look, boy. I still got a little giddiup in my stirrups. Doan judge me by my age.”

  “I wasn’t judging you by—”

  “Oh, yes, you were. But thass no nevermind. The important thing is women go bonkers over cowboys. Always did. You just need to strut yer stuff in yer cowboy gear, and you’ll be home free.”

  “Home free, huh?” How pathetic can I get? Even an aged Lothario thinks I need help.

  “The most important thing is ya gotta get her back in yer bed. After that, ya gotta make love to her over and over and over till she’s walkin’ bowlegged. Poke, poke, poke. Thass one thing us cowboys know how to do good. Ride our fillies hard.”

  Oh, good Lord! He wants me to make Charmaine bowlegged. “Uh, Charmaine might have a thing or two to say about that.”

  Clarence waggled his shaggy eyebrows at him. “She’s a hot tomato, all right. A hottie, as Jimmy would say. Yer dumber’n a cow’s patoot iffen ya doan make the effort.”

  Why don’t you say what you really think, old man? “I may be dumb, but you’re the one who’s dumb if you dare to call Charmaine a hot tomato to her face. I called her a bimbo one time, and she walked out on me.” Now, why did I blab out something like that?

  “Bimbo? Bimbo? Are you nuts, boy? ‘Bimbo’ is a bad word . . . like . . . like slut. Hot tomato is a compliment.”

  Unbelievable! Un-be-freakin’-liev-able! I’m standing here, taking advice from a senior citizen cowboy version of Anne Landers. He oughta write a column called “Dear Clarence” or “The Cowboy Confessor.” Talk about!

  Time to change the subject. “I think you’re just wanting me to keep Charmaine around because you like her food.”

  Charmaine had gotten up even before him this morning and had prepared a huge breakfast of thick Cajun boudin sausages, scrambled eggs, toast, her own version of couche-couche, which was fried cornmeal mush served with brown sugar, butter, and milk, and lots of thick chicory coffee. Clarence, Linc, and Jimmy were falling in love with his wife just because of her cooking. And the respectful way she treated them. And the fact that she’d offered to do their laundry. And, yes, she was making meat loaf for supper, just because Jimmy had asked.

  My life is goin’ down the tubes, but we got meat loaf.

  How could he ask her to stop doing things that pleased his workers so much? If he wasn’t careful, she would be insinuating herself into his life, too, and that would be intolerable.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “There is that, too.” Clarence chuckled and spit another stream off to the side. Meanwhile, they heaved the third steer onto the truck by way of the squeaking winch and forklift.

  “Huh?” Raoul had been so deep in thought that he’d lost track of his conversation with Clarence.

  “You said that mebbe I’m just warming up to Charmaine ’cause I like her food, and I said, ‘There is that, too.’” Clarence’s cloudy gray eyes twinkled, as if he could read Raoul’s mind and knew that it lingered on his wife. And not just her food, either. There was the image of her in his LSU T-shirt. There was the lingering smell of her. There was the kiss.

  They swung the last steer onto the truck bed. Both of them whisked their hands together, then removed their heavy work gloves.

  “Yer daddy liked Charmaine, too.”

  Mon Dieu! He never lets up. “I guess so,” Raoul said. “He gave her half the ranch.”

  Clarence waved his hand in the air, as if that was of little importance. Well, it was important to Raoul.

  “I’m thinkin’ he did that fer yer benefit.”

  Don’t ask, Raoul. You are only encouraging him. What did he do, though? He asked, of course. “How so?”

  “He prob’ly wanted you two to stay together, and bein’ stubborn as you are, the only way he could accomplish that was get you both here on the ranch. Thass why he dint file the divorce papers to begin with.”

  Hey, I’m no more stubborn than Charmaine. Stubborn is her middle name. Isn’t she right this minute cleaning the ranch house when I ordered her not to? Hell, her chin is on autopilot. The least little thing I do and her chin shoots up. “How do you know Charmaine so well, anyhow? We only came to the ranch that one time after we were married.”

  “Oh, she’s been here lots of times. Even after the divorce.”

  Now, isn’t that interesting? I wonder why she was so chummy with dear ol’ dad. “Really?”

  “Uh-hmm. She was a real basket case after the divorce, of course . . .”

  What? Charmaine’s the one who left me. I was the basket case, not her. “I think you got the wrong impression.”

  “. . . then over the years she dropped by on occasion, or your dad went to visit her. He was like the father she never had, seeing as how that Valcour LeDeux never wanted much to do with her. His own chile! Can you imagine that?”

  Something just didn’t fit in this picture, but Raoul had no time to dwell on that. A motor could be heard approaching. Was it the sheriff back so soon? Nope. This vehicle was traveling at breakneck speed. He soon realized it was Charmaine driving his Jeep, like a blue ass fly. He assumed she was driving his vehicle, rather than Tante Lulu’s T-bird because it hadn’t been totally unloaded yet. In it still were a lifesize plastic St. Jude statue and a hand-carved hope chest. He’d been afraid to ask who they were for.

  “Let’s move away from here. I don’t want Charmaine to see these dead animals,” he said.

  Clarence nodded, and the two of them stepped forward quickly so that they stood a good twenty feet away from the truck by the time she came to a screeching halt.

  “Hey, Clarence. Hey, Rusty.”

  “Lookin’ mighty fine today, little lady,” Clarence said, tipping his hat at Charmaine.

  The big ol’ suck-up! Actually, Charmaine did look good. Since she was driving his Jeep Wrangler with the soft top and open sides, he got a full head-to-toe view of her: her dark hair all big and poufed up like she was about to walk down a runway, her full lips plastered with kiss-me-or-die red lipstick, her breasts pressing out in a baby blue T-shirt that proclaimed HAIR ME OUT, her brighter blue stretch pants that molded her butt and long, long legs, and black sandals that showcased her matching kiss-me-or-die red toenails. Not that he was paying attention to any particular details.

  “Well, thank you kindly, Clarence.” Charmaine arched a brow at him as if he was remiss in not seconding Clarence’s compliment.

  “Charmaine, you always look good enough to eat.” Oops! Talk about Freudian slips. He hadn’t meant that the way it sounded. Well, he did think that, but he hadn’t intended to say it out loud.

  Instead of lashing out at him for his crudity, she laughed. She must have noticed his embarrassment and taken pity on him. Then she surprised the hell out of him by tossing out, “Honey, you look good enough to eat, too. Always.”

  He tipped the brim of his hat back off his forehead and smiled. “Is that a fact?”

  “See,” Clarence whispered to him in an aside. “Prime ta be bowlegged. Why dontcha wink at her? Winkin’ allus worked fer me.”

  “Shhh,” he said, without bothering to look Clarence’s way. That’s all Charmaine needs to hear, and she’ll run us both over.

  “Where you off to, missie?” Clarence asked, causing Raoul to break the mesmerizing eye contact between him and Charmaine.

  “Yeah, where are you off to?” he inquired, too.

  “I need to go into town and buy some supplies.”

  “Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he advised.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re trying to hide from the loan shark. Walking into some store, looking the way you do, is like announcing on a loudspeaker, ‘I am Charmaine. Here I am. Come get me.’”

  Of course, Charmaine homed in on the most irrelevant part of what he’d said. “What’s wrong with how I look?”

  Oh, sweetheart, how can you even ask? He exhaled loudly. “You look just great. That’s the problem.”

&nb
sp; “Huh?”

  “Look, I don’t have time for this, but if you insist on going into town, I’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t need you to accompany me. I’m a big girl, and . . .”

  Just then, her gazed fixed on something behind them.

  Uh-oh.

  “Why are those cows sleeping on that truck?”

  Uh-oh.

  As one, he and Clarence moved closer together to block her view.

  She craned her neck to the left so she could see better. Stubborn wench!

  “Are those dead cows back there on that truck?” she demanded to know. “Yeech!”

  “Dead steers,” Clarence corrected her. “Shot through the eyes by some slimy varmints.”

  Sometimes Clarence had a motor on his tongue. Varoom-varoom!

  Charmaine looked immediately to him. “Rusty . . . ?”

  He shrugged.

  “Okay, you can come,” she said, obviously understanding the potential danger now that she’d seen the dead steers.

  “Move over,” Raoul ordered.

  “Get in the passenger seat,” she ordered back.

  “Do we have to argue about everything?”

  She just arched her eyebrows at him and tapped her long fingernails on the steering wheel.

  As Raoul eased himself into the other side of the Jeep, he asked Clarence, “You can take care of the sheriff’s questions, right?”

  Clarence nodded and called out to him, “Remember my advice. Bowlegged, boy. Bowlegged. Wouldn’t hurt to wear yer jeans tighter, either.”

  Raoul just chuckled at the old guy’s perverted humor. Charmaine couldn’t possibly understand Clarence’s words. Or at least he didn’t think she could . . . until she gunned the gas pedal so hard he almost fell out of the Jeep. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! he thought inside in his head, and he was praying, not swearing.

  He thought he heard her mutter, “I’ll give you bowlegged.” And took off like Mario Andretti at the Indy 500.

  He just held on tight. What else could he do?

  Shopping is the next best thing to sex . . . for a woman . . .