The Cajun Cowboy

by Sandra Hill

  After that lengthy tirade, Charmaine looked at Rusty, and he looked at her. Even though they were both accustomed to Tante Lulu’s outrageous personality, she’d turned them speechless this time.

  Finally, Rusty whispered in her ear, “See what I mean? Chaos.”

  That was so unfair. Blaming her because her mother stirred up trouble wherever she went, or that Tante Lulu wouldn’t stand still for any of it. “What do you expect me to do?” she asked Tante Lulu.

  “Go back ta the house and give Fleur what-for.” She sank down onto a low bench and crooked her finger toward Rusty. “Besides, I gots to have a talk with yer husband.”

  Uh-oh, she thought.

  “Uh-oh,” he said, and sat down next to the old lady, who had a determined gleam in her eyes.

  Charmaine left the two of them alone, but she decided to skirt around the back porch on her return to the house. It was time to visit the patron saint of hopeless causes, M’sieur Jude.

  Chapter 14

  I’m trapped, and I can’t get away.

  How could a six-foot-three, 210-pound guy who’d been in prison for chrissake be trapped by a senior citizen half his size wearing a flour sack? But Raoul was, and he didn’t know how to escape without offending the basically kindhearted old lady.

  Sitting on the bench next to her, feeling a bit like Mutt and Jeff with their contrasting heights, he braced himself stoically for whatever she had to tell him. It wasn’t going to be good, he could tell.

  “You havin’ trouble gettin’ it up, boy?”

  At first, his eyes went wide with shock. Then he closed them and counted to ten. This was worse—way worse—than he’d expected. “No, Tante Lulu, it is doin’ just fine.”

  “Then why aren’t ya shakin’ the bedsheets with Charmaine?”

  Shakin’ the bedsheets? Well, at least she didn’t use a vulgar word for it, or refer to my cock as a wee-wee again. “Don’t you think that question is a little personal?”

  “Personal, schmersonal! Charmaine is miserable. Yer miserable. Why aintcha doin’ somethin’ ’bout it, you?”

  “And you think shakin’ the bedsheets is the answer?” God, if only life were that simple!

  “It’s a start. Listen, boy-o, I’m an old lady. I know better’n most that life’s too short to dawdle, and you been doin’ way too much dawdlin’.”

  “Me? Charmaine was busy getting married three different times while I was off . . . dawdling?”

  She turned and wagged a finger in his face. “Listen up, and listen up good. Do you know the one thing all of Charmaine’s husbands had in common?”

  Holy hell! What a question! I do not need to know all the finer points of Charmaine’s men.

  “They all looked jist like you.”

  Once again, Raoul was stunned speechless. And the old lady was standing up, about to leave him hanging in the wind. “Whoa! What does that mean?”

  “It means that Charmaine never got over you. It means that she’s been lookin’ fer you in every man she meets. It means ya better get off yer duff before she finds another look-alike and this one turns out better than a stubborn ol’ ex-con cowboy. Think about how yer gonna feel if that happens . . . again.”

  With that parting shot, she was off.

  But she’d given Raoul food for thought.

  And then the REAL chaos began . . .

  The guests began to arrive at 9 A.M.

  Even before Charmaine went out on the front porch, the squealing laughter and rapid-fire chatter of three little girls told her it was Luc and Sylvie and their brood. She watched as they emerged noisily from their minivan. Who would have ever thought that the “bad boy of the bayou” would one day drive such a conservative Soccer Mom vehicle?

  The men had left hours ago, after a cold breakfast, to work in the west pasture, where the new bulls were going to be given a second stab, so to speak, at some lucky females. Rusty had waggled his eyebrows as he invited Charmaine to come watch, but she’d politely declined. And wasn’t it strange how Rusty had been regarding her so quizzically since yesterday when he and Tante Lulu had shared a mysterious tete-a-tete?

  In any case, Charmaine and Tante Lulu were alone in the ranch house, there being no respite for ranch work even on Thanksgiving. But the men had promised to return early, hopefully by late morning. Jimmy was especially excited because Tee-John would be coming; finally, someone close to his own age.

  Her mother and Dirk probably wouldn’t get up till noon, considering how everyone in the house had been subjected to the tinny sounds of the Winnebago bouncing on its ancient springs all night long from their enthusiastic lovemaking, highlighted by many feminine refrains of “Oooh, oooh, oooh!” and masculine yells of “Yes, yes, yes!” At one point, Tante Lulu had stuck her head out the window and hollered, “Go to sleep, you! Much more, and I’ll be having an orgy-asm.”

  Now, Luc carried one-year-old Jeanette in his arms, though she squirmed to be let down and join her sisters, Blanche Marie and Camille, three and two, respectively. All of them wanted to go over to the corral to see the horsies.

  “Kin we ride horses today, Aunt Char? Kin we? Kin we?” Blanche begged.

  “Sure thing, sweetie pie,” Charmaine answered, scooching down and giving the little girl a hug. “Rusty and his cowboys went out early to get their chores done, but they’ll be back soon. I’m sure they’d love to give you a ride.” I hope. On the other hand, if Rusty’s concerned about chaos, what could be more chaotic than teaching little girls to ride a horse? I wonder if there are any ponies here. I wonder if it makes any difference.

  “Me too,” Camille said.

  “Of course, Cammie,” Charmaine agreed. Hey, the more the merrier, or more chaotic.

  “Me, me,” Jeanette chimed in, not understanding what she was asking for but wanting to be included.

  “Hey, girl!” Luc greeted her. “You are lookin’ good.”

  “Thank you very much,” she said with a little curtsy, then gave her half brother a quick kiss on the cheek. She wore a corset-type blouse over a gauzy, midcalf gypsy skirt. Luc was looking mighty fine, too, in khakis and a golf shirt.

  “Welcome, Sylvie,” she said then to Luc’s wife, who was fighting to hold the two little girls in tow. The prospect of real horses was apparently overpowering. Despite their mother’s admonitions, they kept tugging on her hands to be let loose.

  “Hi, Charmaine. Happy Thanksgiving,” Sylvie said with a laugh and a shrug. Sylvie looked good, too, in brown linen slacks and a beige silk blouse. Her hair was swept up off her face in a girlish fashion. Very attractive! But then, Sylvie always did look good, especially together with Luc. The Creole/Cajun combination was something else!

  Just then, Blanche spotted Charmaine’s outfit. She stopped dead in her struggles, gave the skirt a critical eye, then asked, “Does your skirt twirl?”

  “Gee, I don’t know,” Charmaine said.

  “Mine does,” Blanche informed her, breaking away from her mother’s restraint and spinning around several times to show how her miniature cowgirl outfit with its flared skirt did indeed twirl.

  “Mine, too.” Camille did several twirls, as well, in her matching costume. They had certainly come prepared for a day at the ranch, even Jeanette. Who knew there was a place that sold these things in such small sizes!

  “Twirling is a requisite for dress purchases these days,” Sylvie told her. “Not just Dale Evans attire.”

  “But of course,” Charmaine agreed, and spun along with the little girls. Turns out her skirt did indeed twirl.

  They were all giggling when Tante Lulu came out on the porch. “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.” Today Tante Lulu had opted for a dark blond wig in a short wedge style, which was actually very tasteful. On her feet were white support shoes because of the excessive time she expected to be on her feet. Black polyester slacks and a black-and-white polka-dot shirt were topped by a red apron that read CAJUN COOKING . . . YUM! She turned to Sylvie and asked, “Darlin’, did ya bring yer spec
ial pecan pie?”

  “Two of them,” Sylvie answered. “Plus, a sweet potato pie.”

  “One pecan pie is for me,” Luc said, coming up behind his wife and giving her a swift kiss on the back of her neck.

  “Oh, you!” Sylvie said. The love between these two, though married for four years now, was palpable in the air, and a joy to witness.

  Will I ever have that kind of love?

  Yep, the voice in her head replied.

  Promise?

  It’s not polite to ask a saint for guarantees.

  “Good, good,” Tante Lulu said, regarding the pies, though she’d already prepared a ton of desserts herself. Then she gave Luc, Sylvie, and the three little ones gushy kisses before turning on Luc. “I wants you to do me a favor.”

  “Uh-oh,” he said.

  “I wants you to go shoot me a steer fer the bar-be-cue.”

  “Whaaaaat?” Luc squealed.

  “Jist kidding. Caint anyone take a joke anymore? Me, I wants you to bring two kettles from the barn out to the backyard. Start the fires so we can deep-fry the turkeys. I already injected them with the Cajun spices, and they’s all ready to go. Start the fire on the grill, too. Fer the steaks.”

  “What are we feeding here? An army?”

  “Yep, a family army.”

  “What can I do?” Sylvie asked.

  “How do ya feel ’bout peelin’ taters?”

  “Just great,” Sylvie said with a laugh.

  “By the by,” Tante Lulu addressed Sylvie, “you brought any of that love potion stuff of yers here? Charmaine, bless her heart, she needs it bigtime.”

  Sylvie was a chemist for a pharmaceutical company. She’d become famous a few years back for an alleged love potion she’d developed. Nothing had ever come of it so far except a lot of publicity.

  “Oh! I do not,” Charmaine said. “Need a love potion, that is.” But they were all laughing by then, including Charmaine, who actually thought, Hmmm!

  Remy and Rachel arrived next on his Harley. Every time she saw her half brother, Charmaine always marveled how godly handsome he was, but from only one side of his scarred face. Rachel, his new wife, had recently done a masterful job decorating one of Charmaine’s shops. The two of them had recently returned from their honeymoon and couldn’t keep their hands off each other, even as they got off Remy’s motorcycle.

  That’s all I need. More lovey-dovey couples to make me feel bad.

  “Hey, Charmaine,” Remy said. Then he swung her around in a big hug with her feet off the ground.

  “Hi, Charmaine,” Rachel said, smiling at her husband’s antics. Rachel took two bottles of wine out of the leather side bags and offered them to her as their contribution to the feast.

  “Go on to the backyard. Tante Lulu is enjoying her day as commander-in-chief,” she told them.

  Remy and Rachel laughed with understanding. Everyone knew that Tante Lulu loved being in charge of a family event.

  Just before they left, Rachel remarked to Charmaine, “I heard that Tante Lulu brought Rusty a hope chest.”

  “Yep,” she answered.

  “Dead as a bayou catfish, that’s what Rusty is.” Remy laughed. “Once auntie delivers the hope chest, it’s a done deal.”

  I only wish! Charmaine thought after they left, then immediately corrected herself. No, I don’t wish. After a pause, she added, Do I?

  René and Tee-John were the last to arrive. Tante Lulu was going to be so surprised to see René, the middle brother. He was a Washington, D.C., environmental lobbyist for Louisiana fishermen. He rarely got home these days.

  Tee-John, at fourteen, was looking just as good as all his brothers. While Luc, René, and Remy all shared the same mother, and of course the same father, Valcour LeDeux, Tee-John was the product of Valcour and his longtime common-law wife, Jolie, whom he’d married only four years ago. They, and Charmaine, weren’t the only products of Valcour’s virile seed, which he’d spread indiscriminately over the years. No one knew for sure exactly how many children he had.

  “Did you bring your accordion?” she asked René after all the greetings were over. “We’re hoping for a little family entertainment tonight. You probably aren’t aware, but Rusty has some accomplished musicians here on the ranch. Linc is a wonderful classical guitarist, and Clarence plays a mean harmonica.”

  “For sure. I never travel without my trusty accordion,” René replied. He used to play in a low-down Cajun band called The Swamp Rats, and could always be called on for some musical fun.

  “Yuck! Accordions and harmonicas! You people ever heard of MTV? Get with the times,” Tee-John said and ducked as René leaned over to swat him upside the head.

  René looked at Charmaine and winked. “Can you imagine the torture of riding in a closed vehicle with this character for more than an hour? Me, I mus’ be a saint.” In an overloud whispered aside, he informed her, “His latest question was what I thought about piercing a penis with an industrial-sized bolt. Talk about!”

  “Well, geeshamighty, how’s a guy to know these things?” Tee-John whined with a devilish gleam in his dark Cajun eyes.

  “A bolt in your too-too? The things men’ll do!” Charmaine pretended to shiver.

  “Not this man,” René said, crossing his legs with exaggerated pain.

  “Where did you hear about such a thing?” she asked Tee-John.

  “Bourbon Street. There was this piercing shop, and the guy there even showed us his bolts. Awesome!”

  “Tee-John, you have got to stay away from Bourbon Street. That is not real life there.” René was laughing as he spoke.

  “Yeah, well, this guy says it feels great . . . all that extra weight there all the time. Plus, he said the women love it. Double the pleasure and all that good stuff. What do you think, Charmaine? You ever done it with a guy with a bolt?”

  René was bent over at the waist, slapping his thighs with glee, now that Charmaine was the target of Tee-John’s curiosity.

  And everyone thinks I’m a scandal for having my navel pierced. “No, Tee-John, I can’t say that I have. And take my advice. No . . . bolts.”

  Tee-John grinned then. It was always hard to tell whether his incessant, outrageous questions were serious, or teasing.

  “What’s with the tin box on wheels?” René asked then.

  Charmaine rolled her eyes. “My mother and Dirk,” she told him, then quickly added, “Don’t ask.”

  As she walked around to the backyard with the two of them, arms looped over each other’s shoulders, Tee-John commented, “Dirk, huh? Betcha he knows about penile bolts.”

  They all groaned, including—she could swear— the St. Jude statue, which had been moved to the side yard.

  Charmaine spent a short time with Luc getting updated on her loan shark situation. Bobby the Prick had accepted, reluctantly, the twenty thousand from the sale of her BMW, but he hadn’t yet accepted Luc’s contention that the clock had stopped ticking on the remaining thirty thousand she owed. In fact, since the loan originally had been twenty thousand, he was trying to negotiate down the balance, which might just happen with Luc’s good friend police detective Rosie Mouton putting on his own brand of pressure.

  “So what do I do in the meantime? Can I go home?”

  Luc shrugged, then scrutinized her carefully. “Do you want to go home?”

  I do and I don’t. How’s that for clear as Mississippi mud? “I have to go back at some point soon, if for no other reason than to check up on my businesses.”

  Luc handed her a folder and said, “These are reports from the spa in Houma and the shop in Lafayette. Except for routine problems, which are described in here, they seem to be doing all right without you . . . in the short term.”

  “Yeah, but I need to prepare quarterly tax reports, end-of-the-year P&L’s, a bunch of stuff.”

  “Wait a little longer if you can,” he advised.

  If I can. “And if I can’t?”

  “Maybe Rusty could go back with you.”
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br />   She snorted her opinion.

  “No smooth sailing with you two yet?”

  Are you kidding? “More like ship wrecked and drowning quick.”

  “Maybe you need to kiss the St. Jude statue a few times.” He pointed to the second statue, which was tending one of the grills.

  “You’ve been hanging around Tante Lulu too long.” She leaned over and gave Luc a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for all your help, brother dear.”

  “No prob, sis. There is one other thing, though.” He handed her a second folder. The pensive look on his face boded ill for her mood, which wasn’t all that great to begin with.

  Opening it slowly, she saw that it was the divorce application.

  “Don’t get excited,” he cautioned. “I’m not asking you to sign it right now. In fact, I don’t want you to sign it now. Think it over carefully. Then we’ll talk some more.”

  She agreed with a silent nod of her head. After that, they got caught up on old news. His recent vasectomy. Remy and Rachel’s plans to adopt a child, or children. Her father’s visit to the ranch. The dead steer.

  Seated at another table outside were Sylvie and Linc. Linc and Clarence were gussied up today according to their vision of hunk cowboys. Pristinely brushed cowboy hats, shirts with two pockets and snap buttons, string ties, neatly pressed Wranglers, slicked-back hair. Lordy, Lordy! But how adorable that they cared enough to make the effort!