The Cajun Cowboy

by Sandra Hill

  He was done putting up the star, which he recalled buying for her their first, and only, Christmas together. It had been a cheesy Wal-Mart purchase—cheap tin covered with glitter—but it still looked good.

  He turned to her and said, “Why did you sign the divorce papers?” He could tell his abrupt question surprised her.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Maybe because you still love me.” I hope.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s what I know.” I hope.

  “You sent me away. You said you didn’t want me.”

  “I lied.”

  She shook her head firmly, causing the curls to bounce. “That’s bull. I told you then, Rusty, that I would never be able to forgive you if you sent me away then.”

  “You’re back to calling me Rusty again.”

  “Like that’s important now!”

  “It’s extremely important. Let’s pretend the last three weeks haven’t happened . . . except for our night at The Lucky Duck, of course. I wouldn’t ever want to forget that.” He smiled in hopes of softening that scowl on her face.

  It didn’t work.

  “Don’t even go there,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s over, cowboy. Go home. Let’s get on with our lives. I have a date arriving any minute now.”

  “A date?” he practically bellowed. “You’re a married woman, and you’re dating? I’m sorry, but dating is not allowed. No way!”

  “You went on a date with Amelie.”

  “That was not a date. That was just friendship.”

  She inhaled and exhaled several times as if exasperated with him. “We are not really married and haven’t been for ten years.”

  “Oh, yes, we are.” He raised his left hand for her to see the gold band on his fourth finger.

  “Where did you get that?” At least he’d surprised her again.

  “I’ve always had it.” It was one of the matching bands they’d bought in a pawnshop before their wedding. “Bet you still have yours, too.”

  The blush on her cheeks told him he’d struck home with that lucky guess.

  “I’m not signing the divorce papers,” he told her.

  “Doesn’t matter. The divorce will go through without your consent.”

  Boy, is she stubborn! “But it will take a helluva lot longer.”

  “And what would that accomplish?”

  “Time. Time for me to park my butt on your doorstep and explain why I did what I did. Time to beg for forgiveness. Time to seduce you all over again. Time to build you a dude ranch.”

  Her head shot up at that last time bomb. “That is a low blow.”

  “No, it’s not. Jimmy and I have been doing research—”

  “Jimmy and you?” she interrupted.

  “Yeah. What a kid! We’ve been doing all kinds of research on dude ranches. Jimmy does all the ranch paperwork now, on the computer. You were right about utilizing his talents better.”

  “You are a piece of work, Lanier. Do you really believe that the key to my heart is a dude ranch?”

  How would I know? If I had all the answers, I wouldn’t be here, practically on my knees. Give me a clue, baby. What is it you really want? “Everyone misses you at the ranch. Clarence is driving me nuts with all his advice on how to get you back. Says I handled things all wrong with you, which I did. Linc has a publisher interested in his book and wishes he could discuss it with you. Jimmy yearns for your meat loaf and says he’s sick of my cooking. Everyone misses you.”

  “Everyone?” Her arched eyebrows gave him a clue that he’d made an important omission.

  “Especially me. I miss you most of all.”

  “For my cooking?”

  He grinned. Maybe he was making some headway. “And those frickin’ dryer sheets that smell up my underwear. And all your cosmetic junk that clutters the bathroom. And the way you look in my T-shirt. And your mop dancing. Especially your mop dancing. Will you do that on our wedding night . . . our wedding renewal night . . . except naked . . . and wearing those red high heels? And I miss your snake shooting. And—”

  She was back to frowning again. No headway after all. Note to Raoul: No sense of humor today in Charmaine.

  “I want you to leave,” she said, steely-voiced.

  “I want to kiss you.” Sometimes a guy just needed to get directly to the point.

  “Don’t you dare.” She started backing up.

  He followed after her. “I gotta dare. What flavor is that lipstick anyway?”

  “Blood . . . because that’s what you’re going to taste if you put those wicked lips of yours anywhere near mine.” Her back hit the wall right next to the tree.

  She thinks my lips are wicked. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? He shrugged and pressed his advantage by putting his hands on either side of her head, thus trapping her. “Sometimes a little blood is worth the battle.”

  He bent his knees slightly so he was level with her, then pressed his mouth gently against hers.

  She moaned. No question there. That is definitely a good sign.

  He moaned, too . . . because he thought it might be a good thing to do and because, truth to tell, he couldn’t help himself.

  The scent of the Christmas tree, the scent of her perfume, the sound of the bayou stream outside, the chirping of birds—all these assailed his senses. But mostly, he just lost himself in the feel of her parted lips under his. It might sound hokey, but he felt like swooning at the sheer pleasure of being with Charmaine again. “I love you, chère,” he murmured against her open mouth.

  Instead of being pleased at his words, she jolted upright and shoved him in the chest, hard.

  “What?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because love is forever, and you don’t know how to love beyond the moment. Because I don’t want to be hurt by you again. Because—”

  “Hey, Charmaine,” a voice called out from the other side of the screen door.

  It must be Charmaine’s date. What bloody great timing!

  Charmaine slipped under his arms and headed for the door. He pressed his forehead against the wall and groaned. When he turned, he saw a dude in khaki pants, loafers without socks and a designer T-shirt. He had a receding hairline, which gave Raoul immature satisfaction, but he supposed the guy would be considered handsome by some women.

  What bothered him most of all was that Charmaine was going out with him in that dress. She should dress like that only for me.

  He pressed his hands into fists and willed himself not to use them on the guy, who was an innocent party in the picture.

  “Rusty, I’d like you to meet Jake Theriot.”

  The dude nodded at him, a questioning tilt to his head.

  “And this is Rusty Lanier.”

  “That’s Raoul Lanier,” he corrected. “Charmaine’s husband.”

  Theriot’s chin dropped downward, and Charmaine’s chin went up sky-high with indignation.

  He picked up his hat and was halfway out the door when he turned. “A bit of advice, Theriot. You can take my wife to dinner or a movie, but if you lay a hand on her I’m gonna have to hurt you.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Charmaine called after him. “You are such a dog in the manger.”

  “Believe it, babe,” he called back without turning around. Jamming his hat on his head, he added, “And if I’m a dog, keep in mind one thing. I’m your dog.”

  The man needs a plan . . .

  Raoul went to Tante Lulu’s house for the family meeting, against his better judgment. But, hell, his judgment hadn’t counted for squat lately anyhow.

  And, yes, the entire family was there. Tante Lulu, Luc, Sylvie, Remy, Rachel, René, even Tee-John. Of course, like all Cajun events, food played a big part. As they sat around her kitchen table, the old lady served them pork grillades over cheese grits with sides of collard greens, black-eyed peas, and buttered yams. For dessert she made Peach Crisp topped with vanilla ice crea
m especially for him because of his love of peaches. He suspected she was buttering him up for something. In any case, he planned to take the leftovers home to Clarence and the gang.

  “Okay, what’s yer plan?” Tante Lulu asked him once the table was cleared.

  “Huh? What plan?”

  “You don’t have a plan?” Luc said.

  “How are you going to get Charmaine back if you don’t have a plan?” Sylvie asked, ever the methodical scientist.

  “He must have some ideas.” Rachel turned to him, then shook her head at what must have been a blank look on his face.

  “Tsk-tsk!” René contributed.

  “Maybe you shoulda taken my crawfish advice,” Tee-John said. At Raoul’s frown, he said, “Then again, maybe not.”

  “Not to worry. Luc and Remy were in the same predicament at one point, and we helped ’em out.” Tante Lulu beamed at all of them. “With a little help from St. Jude, of course.”

  Of course.

  “Yeah, but we had to do our Cajun version of the Village People for both of them, and I think that shtick is getting old. We need a new routine.” It was René who was speaking and tapping his chin pensively.

  “Are you sure you’ve tried everything already to win Charmaine back?” Sylvie wanted to know.

  “I’m really out of ideas,” he confessed. “I even told Charmaine that I would consider her dude ranch/health spa idea, and she wasn’t swayed a bit. I would have even gone for the hunk cowboys. Talk about!”

  “Dude ranch?” Luc asked incredulously. “At the Triple L?”

  “A health spa?” Sylvie asked with equal incredulity. “At the Triple L?”

  “Hunk cowboys?” Rachel giggled, even when Remy nudged her in the ribs. “At the Triple L?”

  “I could be a hunk cowboy,” Tee-John boasted.

  Then all of them looked at each other and smiled. Except Raoul, who hadn’t a clue why they were all smiling at him.

  “Hunk cowboys riding horses,” Tante Lulu announced with glee.

  “Riding down the main street of Houma,” added Sylvie.

  “Luc and Remy could carry a banner that says, ‘Triple L Dude Ranch and Health Spa’,” added Rachel.

  “Maybe René’s old band, The Swamp Rats, could be playing their instruments,” added Tee-John.

  “While we’re on horseback?” René’s eyebrows were raised in disbelief, but he clearly loved the idea.

  “Clarence and Linc and Jimmy will want to be hunk cowboys, too,” Tante Lulu pointed out.

  “Maybe we could hire a couple of college students, as well,” Sylvie said. “And don’t forget to include me and Rachel and Tante Lulu.”

  “For sure,” Tante Lulu agreed. “We can be hottie cowgirls.”

  “I think this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard of,” Raoul said. “Absolutely not! Never! No way!”

  “Oooh, I have a good idea.” Rachel was jumping up and down in her seat. “Rusty could come riding his horse at the end, right into Charmaine’s shop. He could scoop her right up into his arms and carry her off!”

  “Into the sunset?” Sylvie sighed.

  “To have his way with her.” Tante Lulu sighed, too.

  “Are you people for real?” Raoul said, but not one of them listened to him.

  “So when should we do it? How ’bout this Saturday? It’ll be the week before Christmas, lots of people out shoppin’, but what the hey!”

  “No!” Raoul yelled because no one was listening to him.

  “You got a better idea? You unwillin’ to try everything possible to get Charmaine back? You gonna let yer pride get in the way?” Tante Lulu scrutinized him closely. When he sat silent, she said, “We’ll do it then!”

  Raoul put his face in his hands, unable to comprehend the amazing spectacle these looney birds were planning, with him as the centerpiece.

  A dozen St. Jude statues positioned around Tante Lulu’s house started laughing, or at least it seemed so to him. But maybe he was just having a mental breakdown.

  When cowboys come to town . . .

  Charmaine was in her Houma shop when the hoopla outside first began.

  It was the Saturday before Christmas, one of the busiest of the year for her spa and all the businesses in the downtown area. So at first the sound of music didn’t draw her attention away from the French twist she was putting in Mrs. Sonnier’s hair.

  After a few moments, though, the fact began to creep into her subconscious that this was rowdy Cajun music, not the usual Christmas fare. And there were a few Rebel yells tossed in, along with the occasional “Yee-haw!” Not to mention the little boy standing near the front desk with his mother, chattering excitedly, “Horses, Mommy. Lotsa horses, Mommy.”

  Now, the Rebel yell was not uncommon in the South, nor was the jubilant “Yee-haw!” But horses in downtown Houma? At Christmas time?

  The fine hairs stood out on the back of Charmaine’s neck in warning.

  They wouldn’t. Would they?

  He wouldn’t. Would he?

  “Holy catfish! You gotta come see this, Charmaine.” It was her receptionist, Alice Mae, motioning her excitedly to the front of the spa.

  “What is it?” she asked. I don’t really want to know.

  “Some kind of parade or rodeo or somethin’. But, Lordy, Lordy, I ain’t never seen so many good-lookin’ cowboys in all my days, and I’m a regular at the Angola prison rodeo.”

  “This is the craziest Santa Claus parade I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. Sonnier said, coming up beside her.

  “Caint be the Santa Claus parade. They held that two weeks ago. Remember. George Thibodeaux was Saint Nick and he was drunk and puked on one of the elves,” one of her hairstylists, Edie Beatty, informed them.

  “I know what it is. It’s them crazy LeDeuxs up to their usual antics.” Mrs. Sonnier glanced sheepishly at Charmaine and added, “No offense intended, dearie.”

  “What usual antics?” Alice Mae wanted to know.

  “Haven’t you ever seen them do the Cajun Men? They dance and sing and strip. Whoo-ee!” Edie said.

  That was when Charmaine started to weep. She sensed what was about to happen, but she was frozen in place.

  It had been difficult for her these past weeks: being kicked out by Raoul, his calling her before hanging up—a necessary but hard, hard thing for her to do—his leaving a message on her answering machine, which she hadn’t returned but had wanted to, very badly; his actually coming to her house and looking like sin in a pair of cowboy boots. Now this. How much more could one girl handle?

  There were dozens of really good looking cowboys riding horses down the middle of the street. They were dressed to the nines in cowboy widow-bait clothes: snap button shirts, string ties, cowboy hats, tight, tight jeans, boots and jangling spurs. They tipped their hats at the men, threw tiny candy canes to the children, blew kisses to the ladies, all accompanied by grins and winks.

  And there were a few cowgirls, as well—in particular Tante Lulu, Sylvie and Rachel in rodeo outfits with lots of fringe and tooled-leather boots. Charmaine hadn’t even known that they knew how to ride.

  Following the ladies, carrying a huge banner between them, were Tee-John and Jimmy. The banner read “The Triple L Dude Ranch and Health Spa.”

  René and his old band members from The Swamp Rats were playing rowdy Cajun music and singing, even as they rode their horses. Mixed in with the Cajun music was the old country and western hit “Mothers Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Love Cowboys.” Certainly appropriate.

  Other hunk cowboys—and, yes, that was what they were—included Luc, Remy, Clarence and Linc. Unbelievable!

  But then Charmaine saw the last cowboy riding up.

  It was Raoul, and he’d never looked more devastatingly handsome in his life. Grim-faced and serious, unlike the other participants in this parade, Raoul clearly would rather be anywhere else than there, making a spectacle of himself . . . and her.

  That was when Charmaine began to weep profusely.


  He rode his horse right up in front of her, with all the other parade participants crowding the street behind him. Extending a hand to her, he asked, “Are you coming with me willingly, chère, or do I have to kidnap you?”

  “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

  “I know.”

  “And you don’t mind?”

  “No, I just love people pointing at me and giggling. I mind. But I’d do anything for you. Even make a horse’s ass of myself.”

  “Well, I refuse to be an active participant in this . . . this spectacle.”

  Meanwhile, The Swamp Rats had swung into the hokiest version of “The Cajun Cowboy,” a play on that old Glen Campbell hit “Rhinestone Cowboy.” Tante Lulu, Sylvie and Rachel had gotten down off their horses and were doing this she-bob kind of dance move to the beat of the music, like idiot back-up Motown singers.

  Disgusted, Charmaine spun on her heels and started back into the shop.

  To her surprise, Raoul was following after her. On his horse!

  “If you bring that horse in here, I swear I will shoot you and the horse.” The horse looked as surprised as Raoul did. On those words, she stomped to the back of the spa, planning to hide herself in a closet or something till everyone left. Once again, I will be the talk of the town.

  Raoul followed closely on Charmaine’s heels. No way was he going to let her get away without hearing him out, not after he’d let that crazy family of hers talk him into their scheme. They would all probably be arrested soon. At the very least, he’d seen the local news media out there with flashing cameras.

  He caught up with Charmaine at the back of the shop. He grabbed her by the forearm and saw tears running down her face. Great! I go to all this trouble . . . to make her cry.

  She squirmed, trying to get away from him.

  He demanded, “Stand still. I have a few things to say to you. Then you can go home and bawl your eyes out.” Maybe I’ll go home and bawl, too.

  Just then, he noticed a lot of customers and employees in the shop, gawking at them. And Tante Lulu, the old busybody, the instigator of this whole mess, was there, too.

  He opened a door, figuring it was a storeroom or something, and proceeded to pull Charmaine in with him for a little private talk. When the heat hit him, he realized it was a sauna. Oh, well! He slammed the door after them, then heard a key turn in the lock.