The Cajun Cowboy

by Sandra Hill

Charmaine was still bristling over Rusty’s cavalier disregard of her dude ranch proposal by early that afternoon.

  She and Tante Lulu were making a grocery list for the Thanksgiving feast to be held two days hence. Truth to tell, Charmaine wasn’t feeling very thankful. She still owed a ton of money to the loan shark. Her relationship with Rusty was hanging in limbo, or worse. Tante Lulu was making her nervous about all the food she was planning to cook, and she wouldn’t shut up about a Christmas wedding.

  “I still think we should shoot one of them cows and dig a pit in the backyard down by the bayou. If Rusty won’ do it, I will.” Tante Lulu just never gave up. She’d been harping on the beef barbecue idea since yesterday. “Let that big ol’ side of beef cook over the hot coals fer two days. Lot less trouble than stuffing a couple of turkeys. Although we could do the birds Cajun style. Inject ’em with marinade and deep fry ’em in hot oil. Yum! Whaddya think, sweetie?”

  I think I’m getting the mother of all headaches . . . or the mother of all P.M.S. . . . or both. “Whatever you decide is okay with me . . . except for shooting a cow. I won’t have any part of that.”

  “Didja hear that?” Tante Lulu asked. “Sounds like a car out front.”

  Since Rusty and the guys had ridden horses out to the north pasture to introduce the seven new bulls to the herd, it couldn’t be them. She and Tante Lulu made their way through the living room to the front porch.

  “Son of a bitch!” the old lady swore, which was really out of character for her, except when you considered who she was calling a son of a bitch.

  Therefore, Charmaine concurred, “Son of a bitch!”

  It was her father, Valcour LeDeux, getting out of a black limo, along with three other men, all of them dressed in tailored suits that combined probably could have paid off her loan shark.

  “What are you doing here?” Charmaine demanded of her father.

  “What are you doing here?” her father demanded back.

  “You’re not welcome here. Go the hell away.” She sniffed the air dramatically. “Have you been drinking? At 11 A.M.?”

  He was still a good-looking man, despite his years, but his cheeks and nose were indeed flushed. Perhaps that was a permanent state for His Alcoholic Highness.

  “We’re here to see Lanier about some ranch business,” he said.

  “Is that a fact? Well, Daddy Dearest, Rusty’s not here; so you can discuss your ranch business with me,” Charmaine said.

  “Funny bizness is what it is if it comes from you, Valcour, you slimy toad, you.” Tante Lulu stepped up to stand beside Charmaine, regarding Valcour like one of the cow pies that littered the Triple L Ranch pastures.

  “You!” Valcour spit out, regarding Tante Lulu with equal venom.

  “Any business you have to discuss with Rusty can be said to me,” Charmaine said. “He won’t be back till late this afternoon, and you will for damn sure be gone by then.”

  “Val, let me handle this,” said one impeccably groomed gentleman as he stepped to the forefront. He had thick white hair styled, no doubt, by one of the New Orleans celebrity hairdressers at five hundred dollars a pop. “I assume this lovely lady is your daughter and the other lovely lady is Miz Rivard of Bayou Black. I’ve heard so much about both of you.” Charmaine recognized the jerk from newspaper photos as one of the top execs at Cypress Oil.

  Tante Lulu snorted her disgust and stomped back into the house, leaving Charmaine alone on the porch. That was okay. Charmaine was a big girl. Her father couldn’t hurt her anymore.

  “Ladies, let me introduce myself. I’m Winston Oliver, CEO of Cypress Oil, and these are my associates Pierre Pitot and Max Elliott from our Dallas office.”

  Big whoop! “I don’t care who you are. You are not welcome here.”

  “Charmaine, behave yourself, and go call Lanier,” Valcour said. “He’s been ignorin’ our letters and phone calls. It’s time for a one-on-one with that ex-con ex- husband of yours.”

  “Daddy, you behave yourself. Rusty is a better man than you on his worst day. And, no, I’m not going to call him back to the house. Anything you have to say about the ranch can be said to me.”

  “And why is that, girlie? You spreadin’ yer legs fer convicts now, too? Ha, ha, ha.” He looked to his cronies who had the grace to appear embarrassed by a man speaking thus to his daughter. Little did they know!

  “If I was sharing a bed with Rusty, and I’m not saying we are, it might be because we’re still married. Surprise, surprise! Furthermore, I own half the ranch.” That was way more information than she should have revealed, but her father had always had a talent for pushing her buttons.

  “What?” her father practically squealed. The three other men appeared stunned, then pleased by the news. They probably figured that family ties would work to their advantage.

  “If you own half of this ranch, then you damn well better sell us the mineral rights,” her father concluded, dumb ass that he was.

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because you owe me, dammit. So stop jerkin’ us around.” He turned to one of the gentlemen who stood in the background, which might very well be a bodyguard and not an executive, and told him, “Get the papers out of the limo so my daughter can sign them.”

  “You are unbelievable. A real piece of work.” She waved to the man who had just emerged from the limo with a folder in hand. “Hey, you. You just hand those little ol’ papers to my father so he can shove them where the sun don’t shine.”

  “You allus did have a gutter mouth,” her father remarked with disgust. Amazing how a low-life like him could be disgusted by anything.

  “Can we come inside and discuss this?” Mr. Oliver inquired in a patently sly manner.

  “No, you cannot come inside. My aunt and I are busy. We were just about to go off to shoot a steer for Thanksgiving dinner.” She spun on her heels, about to walk back into the house, pleased with her outrageous pronouncement.

  Well, not so outrageous when she saw Tante Lulu standing in the open doorway with a rifle aimed at the group in the front yard. The rifle was almost as big as she was.

  “Does she know how to use that thing?” Valcour asked Charmaine.

  Tante Lulu probably couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle. “A crack shot,” Charmaine said.

  All four men turned green.

  Especially when Tante Lulu let loose with one shot, which put out the headlight on the limo.

  “Jesus H. Christ, are you nuts, Louise?” Valcour exclaimed.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Mr. Oliver said.

  All four of them scurried back into the limo and raised dust as their squealing tires backed up, then flew down the road. Her father leaned out of the window at the last minute and yelled, “This isn’t over yet, you bitch.”

  “Which one of us was he calling a bitch?” Charmaine asked.

  Tante Lulu shrugged, a huge grin on her face.

  “Were you aiming for the headlight?”

  “Naw. I was aimin’ for Valcour’s too-too.”

  At first, Charmaine’s jaw just dropped, but then she grinned, too. She and Charmaine gave each other high fives, followed by little Snoopy dances of victory. After that, buoyed by their brave actions, they went back into the house to finish their grocery lists.

  All in a day’s work.

  More almost-sex . . .

  “You did what?” Raoul raged at the two dingbats when he got back to the house by midafternoon.

  “I took a shot at Valcour’s too-too and hit his headlight, instead,” Tante Lulu said, not one bit repentant. She was sitting at the kitchen table making a grocery list that looked about two feet long.

  “You hit his what? Headlight? What body part in your convoluted language is a headlight? Did you hit his belly button or one of his nipples? Dieu, Valcour would like nothing better than to sue the skivvies off you, old lady.”

  “Who you callin’ an ol’ lady?” the old lady inquired.

  “You are such a
dolt.” Charmaine laughed at him while making that pronouncement. She was polishing some silverware for the upcoming friggin’ feast. He didn’t even know silverware that needed polishing existed at the ranch. “Tante Lulu knocked out one of the headlights on the Cypress Oil limo.”

  Oh. “How was I supposed to know that?” he stormed, his face heating up with embarrassment. “The two of you are proud of your actions. Like a Cajun version of Lucy and Ethel, you are. Did it ever occur to you that an ex-con can’t afford to have the police called to his home? Did you think about what effect a weapon on my property might have on my parole?” He glared first at Charmaine, then at Tante Lulu, the prime perp in this case.

  Charmaine at least had the grace to appear surprised, then guilty about not having considered the consequences to him.

  Unlike the redheaded Cajun Rambo midget who glared right back at him. “Doan you be lookin’ at me like you jist ate a green persimmon,” Tante Lulu chastised him. “Those men were actin’ threatenin’-like, and I know better than most that Valcour doan hesitate to raise his hand to his daughter . . . or his fist. Wouldja have felt better iffen you came back to see Charmaine’s blood on the porch?”

  Fists? Blood? Raoul’s eyes shot to Charmaine, whose chin was raised haughtily, daring him to say anything more. Oh, Charmaine.

  “Don’t you dare be pitying me,” she snapped.

  “Why? You might end up with a little pity action, if you know what I mean.” If he didn’t tease, he might just cry . . . on her behalf. Fists? Her father had used his fists on her?

  “I know what you mean, and forget about it. Us no-brain bimbos, who wouldn’t know a spreadsheet from a bed sheet, aren’t into that.”

  Back to the dude ranch business again. As if! But, man, she’s like a puppy tugging on a guy’s pant leg. Tug, tug, tug.

  “Charmaine and me gots to go shopping tomorrow fer the Thanksgivin’ feast,” Tante Lulu said. “You gonna be our bodyguard, or do we gots to ask Clarence?”

  “Give your list to Clarence. He and Jimmy can go for you in the morning after their chores.”

  She looked as if she might protest, but then she shrugged and said, “Mebbe thass best. We have lots of things to do here today, me and Charmaine.” She paused dramatically and added, “Like shoot and dress a steer. And dig a barbecue pit.”

  “There will be no shooting of animals on this ranch,” he said as firmly as he could, then turned and made his way toward his bedroom. He planned to spend the next two hours there delving into his past, a task he did not relish. The reading of his father’s letters.

  He read only the first few from twenty-five years ago before stopping to stare off into space. They were so poignant with a father’s obvious love for a son he’d only discovered he’d had and the agony of separation. That was when something disturbing happened.

  A gunshot. And it came from behind the house.

  His first thought was, If they shot a steer, I’m going to shoot them.

  His second thought was, Oh, no! Maybe Valcour and his cronies came back. Or the Dixie Mafia discovered Charmaine’s whereabouts and they shot out her kneecaps . . . or worse.

  Like lightning he rushed through the house and out the back door, grabbing a rifle along the way. He hit the back porch running, then skidded to a stop. His heart was racing so fast he thought he might have a heart attack.

  Tante Lulu was standing in the backyard near the bottom of the steps, flanking one of two improvised tables—discarded wood doors over sawhorses. She and Charmaine must have dragged them from the barn to use for the big hoopla feast, which was apparently going to be outdoors. Tante Lulu just grinned at him. “Ain’t Charmaine sumpin’?”

  “Oh, yeah, she’s something,” he said grimly as he walked over to Wild Bill Charmaine. She was holding a smoking pistol in one hand as she regarded the humongous snake at her feet—a water moccasin of about six feet, not counting its head, which Charmaine had blown off. The reptile must have come up out of the bayou, though it was the first poisonous snake he’d seen this close to the house.

  I can’t believe this. I’m seeing it, but I still don’t believe it. “Have you lost your freakin’ mind, Charmaine? Why didn’t you call me when you saw the snake?”

  “Why?” She blinked at him with genuine puzzlement. “Do you think I need a big ol’ man to take care of little ol’ me? Do you think I can’t handle the job myself?” She looked pointedly at her weapon and the dead snake.

  I feel like taking her by the neck and shaking some sense into her. Or taking her by the neck and kissing her to make sure she’s still alive. But first, I’ve got to get my heart rate down below supersonic. “Where’d you get the gun?”

  “I always carry a pistol in my purse.”

  Just great! “Why? So, you can shoot one of the Sopranos when they show up?”

  “Hell, no. Although it’s a thought. Oh, stop glowering at me. I’m a single female living alone on a remote bayou. My half brothers taught me how to protect myself when I was a teenager.”

  But not from a father’s fists. “Well, you almost gave me a heart attack,” he grumbled.

  “Didja think we shot a cow?” Tante Lulu cackled, having come up beside him.

  Well, come to mention it . . . “No, I didn’t think you shot a cow,” he lied.

  “Whooee, thass a big one.” Tante Lulu stared with gruesome fascination at the snake, which was still twitching in its headless death throes. She had a broom in one hand and a plastic trash bag in the other. Within minutes, the snake was off to the trash barrel, and he and Charmaine were left alone.

  “You scared me, sweetheart. That’s why I yelled at you. I thought you might have been hurt,” he said softly, stepping toward her.

  “Was that an apology?” She put a hand on one hitched hip. “Well, no need to worry about me. Us brain-dead bimbos get along just fine.” She unhitched her hip and took a step backward when she belatedly noticed his advance.

  Not afraid of a venomous reptile, but she’s afraid of me.

  He took two steps forward then, staring at her lips, which were red and parted.

  She backed up three steps and hit the trunk of an ancient live oak tree dripping Spanish moss.

  “Be more careful in the future, honey. No more shooting. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” He leaned down slightly and closed his eyes briefly as he inhaled the floral scent of her hair.

  “Why? Don’t act as if you care. Do you care?” She sounded breathy and excited.

  Please, God, let her be excited.

  Uh, I don’t think that’s the kind of thing you should ask God for, St. Jude said.

  “Do I care? Mais oui, chère.” He burrowed his fingers in her hair to hold her face in place, then rubbed his lips back and forth across hers. He moaned his appreciation of the sheer, exquisite pleasure. Then, oh God above, then he kissed her with all the yearning that seemed to overflow in him all the time. And, oh God above, she kissed him back with equal yearning. When he drew back, he gasped out, “Why is it . . . why is it that every time I kiss you, it feels like coming home?”

  “Don’t try to sweet-talk me,” she said and grabbed his head, pulling him back for another kiss . . . a kiss that about sucked all the oxygen out of his lungs and every blood vessel in his overheated body.

  “Nobody in the world kisses like you, darlin’. Nobody. Let’s go to my bedroom. Let’s forget the whole friggin’ born-again crap. Let’s make love till the cows come home, and the chickens and the hogs and the goats and the birds. Let’s forget the past and make some new memories. I . . . need . . . you . . . so . . . much.” With each choked-out word, Raoul showered her face and neck with kisses. His hands roamed over her body wildly.

  When she whimpered and arched her neck for more kisses, he put his hands on her butt and lifted her so that her legs wrapped around his hips and her cleft rode his erection.

  “I am so tempted, but I think—”

  “Don’t think.”

  “But—”
/>
  “No buts.”

  “Forever . . . I want forever this time.”

  “I swear to God, Charmaine, this feels like forever.”

  She laughed in a suffocated manner. “You just want to get laid.”

  “Yeah. Forever.”

  She laughed again. “You don’t take me seriously. You think I’m just a brainless bimbo.”

  Hell and damnation! She is going to talk this thing to death. Only she could talk down a hard-on. “I’ve developed a fondness for bimbos. And I don’t know how much more serious I can get at the moment.” He ground his hips against her in emphasis.

  “Yeah, but will you respect me in the morning . . . as a business partner?” Charmaine wiggled her hips slightly to keep herself from slipping. That slight abrasion of her latex crotch against his denim one felt like an electric shock of the best possible kind. It would take no effort on his part at all to eat the spandex out of the joining of her thighs if it would mean that he could plunge himself into her hot sheath.

  But no, sanity was returning. Dammit! He pulled back slightly and rested his forehead against hers, panting for breath. When he was able to speak, he said, “So you want forever and a dude ranch. A little greedy, don’t you think?”

  She put a hand to his cheek gently. “I’m worth it, Rusty.”

  “I know that way too well.” Even so, he released his hands from her butt and let her slide to the ground with a painfully pleasurable drive-by over his erection. Setting her at arms length away from him, he added, “But I don’t much relish trading sex for favors.”

  “Don’t insult me by implying that I would prostitute myself that way. Bimbo or not, if I made love with you, it would be because I wanted to. Period.”

  “Enough with the bimbo rant! I used that word to you once ten years ago. Are you going to punish me for that for the rest of my life?”

  She ignored his words and continued her explanation. “Try to understand this, Rusty, because it’s important. You may call it born-again crap, but what it means to me is that next time I get involved with a man it’s going to be more than a roll in the hay, married or not. And that man has got to value me for being more than a good lay. I am smart, and I am sexy. Both of those attributes are equal.”