The Cajun Cowboy

by Sandra Hill

  “Did I just get a lecture here?” he asked, smiling.

  “Uh-huh. Is it sinking in yet?”

  “It’s starting to. But you know, honey, that respect thing goes both ways. I’m a trained veterinarian, and I know a hell of a lot more about ranching than you do. It’s about time you started giving me credit, too. And, furthermore, you walked out on me ten years ago. You were the one who threw in the towel. Talk about unresolved issues!”

  She appeared about to argue, then changed her mind. Instead, she nodded.

  He reached out a hand and ran the pad of his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips.

  She sighed.

  “What if I said that I think . . . that I think . . .”

  “Spit it out, cowboy.” She gazed at him with such soulful intensity that his heart about flipped over.

  “. . . that I think I might still love you. Would that melt any ice?” He’d thought this when they’d engaged in almost-sex the night before, but he hadn’t planned to say it out loud. It just slipped out.

  “Oh, baby.” She was the one who ran the pad of her thumb over his kiss-swollen lips then. And he was the one to sigh. “It would melt a mountain of ice, a continent. But love is not enough. Teenagers think it’s the end-all and be-all. I certainly did when I married you in a heated hurry. There has got to be more this time.”

  It’s all I’ve got to offer, though. And still it’s not enough. He stepped back from her and put his hands in the air in a surrender gesture. “So be it. But I’m warning you, babe. No more twitching your tail in my face.”

  “I do not twitch.”

  “You twitch all right. Bottom line: You don’t want to have sex? Fine.” Well, not so fine, but you don’t have to know that. “Just don’t keep passing the platter if you don’t want me to eat.”

  Nice analogy, boy. Real nice! the burr in his brain said.

  “Are you saying I’m a tease?” She bristled like a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. Just know this.” He pointed a forefinger at her for emphasis. “I’m not a college kid anymore that you can twist around your little finger. The next time I put my mouth on yours . . . if you don’t bite off my tongue . . . I’m probably going for the real deal. And I don’t mean dry humping against a tree trunk.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Oh, yeah. “Take it any way you want, sweetheart.” He pivoted on his bootheels and stomped away, pride intact. Or, with as much pride as a guy could have with a half-blown erection still sticking out of his jeans like the prow of a ship.

  Windows to the past . . .

  Raoul spent the rest of the afternoon locked in his bedroom reading old mail. It was an enlightening experience.

  There were letters and birthday cards and Christmas greetings. Even the gifts his father had sent over the years had been returned and stored in the attic, according to what he read. Teddy bears. A child’s cowboy outfit. Drums. A BB gun. Some Western comic books. An Atari game system. Why his father had never given them to him on his rare visits he had no idea. Probably pride. Or misplaced revenge against his mother. Maybe just embarrassment.

  His father had not been a gushy man, in person or in his letters. Some would have even described him as cold, especially in later years when bitterness clouded his thinking, but Raoul was beginning to get a better picture. A young man of eighteen having to take over a ranch when his parents were suddenly killed in an auto accident, the constant struggle to keep the ranch afloat, no social life to speak of, a one-night stand with a young woman that resulted in a baby he never knew . . . till its fourth birthday, years of a tug-of-war just to visit with his child. His father had been hurt so many times that he fought in the only way he knew how. If he didn’t show his emotions, he’d figured he couldn’t be hurt.

  His father never used the word “love” in his letters, but Raoul no longer doubted that he had loved him. It was there between the lines. And in his actions.

  When he finished the letters, he swiped at his eyes, threw the box on the bed, then opened the door and hollered at the top of his lungs, “Charmaine!”

  Within seconds, she came running toward him from the kitchen, her hands all floury. “What? What’s wrong?” She looked his face over with concern, probably noticing the aftereffects of his tears.

  “Did you know that my father paid for my college scholarship? The one I was offered after I lost my football scholarship for dropping out of school when you dumped me?” He took a deep breath following his long-winded question.

  Her face flushed with guilt. “He asked me not to tell you.”

  Secrets! More secrets! “Why?”

  “Oh, don’t ask me that now.” She groaned.

  “Why?”

  “Because then I’d have to tell you why I had to drop out of school.”

  That was not the answer he’d expected. His eyes went wide with shock. “What did your dropping out of school have to do with my dropping out of school and my father secretly funding my education, which, by the way, the ranch could not afford.”

  “Oh, if you must know, my father—snake that he was and is—pulled the financial rug out from under me. He wanted me to use my influence with you and your father to sell him the ranch, which I wouldn’t do.”

  Son of a bitch! Longtime puzzle pieces began to fall into place. “And that’s why you were getting a job in a strip joint?”

  “It was not a strip joint, I tell you. But, yes, that’s why I needed to work.” She blushed and lifted her chin so high it was a wonder she didn’t get a nosebleed.

  Control your temper, Raoul cautioned himself. Don’t scream or punch the walls or drive off in a rage. Just calm the hell down. He inhaled and exhaled several times. “And you didn’t tell me all this at the time . . . because?”

  “Because you would have felt responsible for me, and you would have dropped out of school.”

  I feel like hurling the contents of my stomach. “Which is precisely what I ended up doing.”

  She threw her hands in the air with disgust, causing flour to flutter all over the place. “How was I supposed to know that?”

  How about because I told you I loved you every pathetic chance I got? “Let me get this straight. My father knew that Valcour was pressuring you to get to him, and he did nothing to stop it?”

  “He didn’t know then. He found out later. That’s why he always liked me, I think. He was a self-sacrificing kind of guy, and he probably saw some of that in me.” She shrugged. “It’s probably why he lied about the divorce papers being filed. His small way of making up for problems he felt that he had caused, no matter how indirectly.”

  “I just don’t understand why I was kept out of the loop. Why didn’t he trust me enough to tell me? Why didn’t you?”

  “It seemed best at the time.”

  Best for who? Not me. Your leaving me was definitely not the best thing for me. “So, the financial hole this ranch is in started when my father came to my assistance? So, the oil vultures have been after my father all this time? So, you and my father were in cahoots, never deigning to let poor ol’ Raoul know what was going on? So, everything I ever thought about my dad and you was a sham?”

  “Let me explain—”

  “No, let me explain. You stood outside just two hours ago preaching to me about respect and trust and how you couldn’t enter a relationship without those two essential ingredients. Well, screw you, Charmaine. You and your hypocrisy.”

  She gasped.

  But he didn’t care. He was on a roll. “What kind of respect and trust did you show me? You didn’t think I could handle the truth back then when we were kids. You didn’t think I could handle the truth these past ten years. And you sure as shootin’ didn’t think I could handle the truth this past week while you’ve been living under the same roof with me.”

  “Are you two havin’ a lovers’ spat?” Tante Lulu asked during the short spurt of silence between his outbursts.

  They both turn
ed to look at the old lady standing in the dining room doorway, staring at them with concern.

  “No!” he and Charmaine shouted at the same time.

  Raoul turned his attention back to Charmaine. Wagging a finger in her face, he warned, “Stay away from me, Charmaine.”

  With those words, he stomped out of the house and to the barn, where he saddled a horse and rode off at a fast gallop, needing to let off steam.

  It must have been the wind that caused his eyes to tear up.

  Chapter 13

  And then she got mad . . .

  Charmaine bawled her eyes out for a long time . . . about five minutes.

  Hurt and disappointment riddled her body and mind to the point where she shook and actually felt sick to her stomach. He said he loved me . . . well, he said that he thought he might still love me. Same thing. But that didn’t sound like love spewing from his lips. More like hate. Just like a man! First hint of trouble and he’s out of there.

  Then anger took over. How dare he call me out for doing the noble thing? Who the hell does he think he is? St. Rusty?

  Then determination kicked in. He’s gonna be sorry. Yes, he is. Stay away from him? Hah! He’s not gonna know what hit him. Thinks he can tell me what to do. Hah! Just watch me.

  “Tante Lulu,” Charmaine said, coming into the kitchen where the old lady was still writing out a grocery list. “Did you by any chance bring that belly dance outfit with you?”

  Tante Lulu just grinned. “Thass my girl!”

  And then he got mad . . .

  Raoul rode his horse hard, till he and Dark Star were both saturated with sweat. Only then, out of concern for the animal, did he head back to the barn.

  A series of emotions roiled through him as he walked the horse dry in the main aisle of the barn, then proceeded to brush him down. A quick survey of the barn showed that the three horses used by Clarence, Linc, and Jimmy were still gone. Thank God for small favors.

  He took extra special care in grooming the horse. It was as close as he got to ministering to animals these days. God, how he missed being a vet! And now this mess with Charmaine!

  He wasn’t a guy who liked to analyze his feelings. Most men didn’t. They put it up there with other unfavorite things like shopping and plucking their eyebrows. But he was analyzing now, and he was not a happy camper.

  First, he was hurt. Profoundly hurt. By both his father and Charmaine. His father had taken so many actions over the years, manipulated him in a sense, without his knowledge. Why had he felt the need to protect him so? Had he considered him a weakling who couldn’t handle the stress? At the very least, why had he never told him that he cared?

  But his father wasn’t around to answer his questions or be punished for his omissions or his orneriness. Charmaine was.

  Mon Dieu, she complained all the time about his considering her a brainless bimbo. Well, tit for tat was apparently her modus operandi because he sure felt like a male bimbo . . . a bimbob, or himbo, or whatever the hell they called it. Too dumb to live and handle the problems life dealt him. Talk about!

  The second emotion to sucker punch Raoul was anger. Blood boiling, punch-the-walls, I-could-scream-with-rage anger. How dare she make decisions on his behalf? How dare she omit telling him life-altering news? She was not his mother or his guardian. She’d been his wife, and he’d trusted her. No more!

  Determination became his primary focus now. If he’d been wavering over a renewed relationship with Charmaine, that foolhardy notion fizzled out like foam on day-old beer. The sooner they got divorced and she moved out of his life, the better.

  In the meantime, he was going to make her so sorry, and she better not come waving that sweet ass in his face, either. Or her tempting breasts. Or her kiss-some lips. Nope, he was immune.

  An odd thing happened then. He could swear he heard the horse laugh at him. But maybe it was St. Jude.

  It wasn’t me. Although I do think you’re a horse’s ass.

  Aaarrgh!

  Misery loves company . . . depending on the company . . .

  Rusty was behaving like a real horse’s ass.

  And Charmaine was so miserable she could cry . . . or die.

  He didn’t show up for supper last night or for breakfast this morning. How was she supposed to torment him with her new push-up bra that promised a “voluptuous cleavage” if he never got to see it? How was she supposed to flaunt herself in front of him, making him sorry he would never have her? How was she supposed to ignore him if he wasn’t there to ignore?

  Clarence and Linc had arrived for both meals with their hair slicked back off their faces, reeking of Old Spice and wearing jeans so tight they could barely sit at the table. Jimmy couldn’t stop himself from snickering.

  “You look mighty fine again today,” Tante Lulu told Clarence and Linc.

  “You look like dorks,” Jimmy disagreed.

  Tante Lulu swatted him with a dish towel and cautioned, “Hush!”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” Linc said.

  “Any chance we look a little bit hunky?” Clarence asked with a flushed face. Charmaine noticed that he didn’t have a plug in his cheek today. That was one thing to be thankful for.

  “You mean like a Polish fellow?” Tante Lulu frowned with confusion.

  “No, not like a Polish fellow,” Clarence snapped. Then he softened in tone and explained, “Like that Diet Pepsi guy on the television . . . or those cover models on romance novels. Oh, not young like them, but . . . you know . . . virile.”

  “Clarence, if you were any more virile, we’d have to lock you up,” Tante Lulu said.

  Understanding dawned slowly for Charmaine, who realized that this was all about the dude ranch and hunk cowboy proposal she’d made to Rusty. He must have told them about it. These two nitwits must be trying to turn themselves into hunks to hold on to their jobs. Geesh!

  Later that morning, Charmaine and Tante Lulu stood on the front porch, waiting for Clarence to come back and take Tante Lulu to the grocery store. She had a daunting list in hand, which would require his pickup truck to haul it back, her T-bird being too small to contain it all.

  Charmaine was going to stay behind with her own list of duties, which the old lady had prepared for her:

  1)Iron four tablecloths.

  2)Make up with Rusty.

  3) Take pies out of oven when timer goes off. Put in new pies.

  4)Make up with Rusty.

  5)Cut up dry bread for stuffing.

  6)Make up with Rusty.

  7)Bring three jars of canned peaches up from cellar.

  8)Make up with Rusty.

  9)Check for snakes.

  10)Make up with Rusty.

  11)Scrub out kettles for deep-frying turkeys.

  12)Make up with Rusty.

  13) Take peach bubble bath, paint finger- and toenails peach color, and wear an I-can-make-yer-eyes-bug-out outfit.

  Charmaine had to laugh inside. I wonder if Auntie wants me to make up with Rusty.

  Even then, Tante Lulu had some last-minute instructions, “Doan fergit to take some beefsteaks out of the freezer to thaw. Iffen we caint cook up a side of beef to go with the turkeys, we kin at least bar-b-cue some steaks. And mushrooms . . . I gotta remember to buy fresh mushrooms. Caint have steak without mushrooms.”

  “Everything’s going to work out, Auntie. Stop worrying.” She squeezed the old lady’s shoulder.

  “Well, of course, it’ll all work out. Things allus does. And that goes fer you, too, girlie. God has a plan fer you, and fer a certainty Rusty plays a part. I guar-an-tee. Jist doan fret so.”

  “In other words, let things happen?”

  “Heck, no! God helps those what helps themselves. Dint I lay out that belly dance outfit fer you?”

  Speaking of outfits, Tante Lulu was wearing her “Goin’ Shoppin’” outfit today. She still had the same red curls, which was unusual; Tante Lulu usually liked to change styles or colors every day, but she’d been ext
ra busy this morning. As for clothing, she wore a senior- citizen adaptation of cargo pants and a fishing shirt, the common denominator being lots of pockets and loops for holding things, like a slim tablet with her lists, a pen, calculator, packet of tissues, reading glasses, sunglasses, recipes. In addition, she carried a purse the size of a bayou barge. On her feet were comfortable running shoes. Tante Lulu took her shopping seriously.

  Charmaine’s heart expanded with love, just looking at the kooky old bird. She adored her, idiosyncracies and all.

  Just then, they heard a motor approaching. But it wasn’t Clarence. A large, old-fashioned Winnebago being pulled by an ancient Chevy Impala with more rust spots than paint sputtered down the road.

  Charmaine was the first one to recognize the latest arrival. Her eyes darted accusingly to Tante Lulu.

  “Now, doan get riled up. I jist happened to give her a call yesterday and . . .” Tante Lulu, the traitor, shrugged.

  It was her mother, Fleur Robicheaux, better known on the stripper circuit by the single name “Fleur.” And she wasn’t alone. She’d brought with her a man, presumably her latest companion. Her mother always had to have a man in her life.

  As the two of them opened the creaking doors of the vehicle and climbed out, Charmaine and Tante Lulu both groaned.

  Her mother was wearing a one-piece, leopard print leotard. It was sleeveless and low cut and covered only by a wide cinch belt. Matching leopard print hoop earrings the size of mason jar rings hung from her ears. She wore high-heeled leopard print sandals. Her bleached blond hair was piled atop her head and held together with a leopard print scrunchie. Her makeup was a work of art, if one admired plasterwork.

  To give her credit, her mother had a great body for a woman of forty-six. And her skin had not a wrinkle to show for her years, thanks to meticulous creaming and possibly some plastic surgery.

  The companion, on the other hand, couldn’t be more than thirty. He wasn’t very tall, and he had the body of an overmuscled weight lifter. In fact, his biceps were about the size of Charmaine’s thighs. His hair was bleached blond and long, down to his shoulders. He wore leather pants and a white T-shirt sporting the logo MOTHER TRUCKER. A toothpick dangled from his loose Elvis-like lips in a manner he probably considered sexy.