The Cajun Cowboy

by Sandra Hill

  Tante Lulu called out, “I’ll be back in an hour, Rusty. Do yer thing.”

  What “thing”? I don’t have a “thing.”

  Charmaine stared at him as if he’d gone mad, which he had. She tried the door, found it locked from the outside, said a bad word, then glared at him, as if he’d been the one to lock them in. He might have if he’d thought of it first. At least she wasn’t crying any more.

  “Man, it’s hot in here,” he said, fanning his face with his hat. He sat down on one of the benches built into the back wall. “When does it cool down?”

  She sat at the other end of the bench from him. “It doesn’t.”

  Uh-oh! “Why do people come in here?”

  “To cleanse their pores.”

  “By sweating like pigs? You’re kidding.”

  “And to relax the muscles after a workout.”

  “I can think of other ways to relax my muscles . . . and yours.”

  He saw a small smile twitching the edges of her mouth, which he hoped was an indication of her softening toward him. Either that or she was laughing at him.

  Charmaine wore a white T-shirt with the logo “Shear Pleasure” tucked into a short, stretchy black skirt that came barely to her knees. Sheer stockings covered her long legs, which ended in the same pair of red high heels she’d had on the other night. Why would a sane person wear high heels to work? Red lipstick and nail polish matched her shoes, and her hair was big and curly in her usual bed-mussed style.

  She looked hot, hot, hot, and he didn’t mean that temperature-wise. But she was staring at him, arms folded over her pretty ol’ breasts, like he was a piece of cold meat.

  Where to start? “Charmaine, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “Which time would that be? Ten years ago when you called me a bimbo? Or three weeks ago when you told me I meant no more to you than a good lay . . . though you, of course, called it a short-term fling. Same thing.”

  If ever I need help, St. Jude, it’s now. Help me choose the right words.

  You’re on your own, buddy.

  He inhaled and exhaled, then began. “First of all, I’ve taken back that bimbo statement every way I can. I’m not going to apologize for it anymore. And, frankly, I kind of like the bimbo attitude you flaunt at everyone.” He put up a halting hand. “Don’t get all riled up. Let me finish. ‘Bimbo’ is just a word. I accept that some people consider it an insult, but dammit, you don’t. Admit it. You make it your own word and toss it back in the face of anyone who dares to disagree. So, while I promise never to use the word in anger to you again, you’ve got to agree not to keep rubbing it in with me.”

  She must have been impressed with his spiel because she nodded after a while. “You been practicing this speech, cowboy?”

  Only night and day. “No. It just spewed out of my mouth.”

  “You done good.”

  So far, so good. “It is hot in here,” he said then, tossing his hat to the floor and pulling his black T-shirt over his head.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, panic in her voice.

  Why panic? He glanced over and saw that she was staring at his bare upper body. With interest. And it had thrown her off guard. He grinned inwardly with satisfaction and willed himself not to gloat. He toed off his boots and tossed his socks aside. “I didn’t know that toes sweated. Man oh man, it’s hot in here.” He gave her what he hoped was an innocent look and suggested, “Why don’t you take off some of your clothes? You’re sweating, too.”

  “Women don’t sweat. We glow.”

  Sweat, glow . . . take off the damn clothes, sweetheart. But what he said was, “You must know why I told you to leave the ranch.”

  “I know why you think you did it. To protect me. But I’m not buying it . . . and if you dare to pull that zipper on your fly down any farther, I’m not talking to you anymore. It will be a quiet hour in here.”

  Like I would stop now! Like I am on a roll. Or a roller coaster. Big difference! “Why aren’t you buying it?” Meanwhile, he continued to undo his jeans and shimmy them off, kicking them aside. He still wore his briefs, which were sopping wet in the heat . . . and, he hoped, kinda transparent. He saw her look there once, quickly, then turn away with a flushed face. Charmaine had always liked his body. He hoped she still did.

  “Because there are a hundred other ways you could have gotten me off the ranch. You could have tied me up and tossed me in the Winnebago. You could have told me that you needed me to take Tante Lulu to safety. You could have told me the truth.”

  I could toss you over my lap right now and have wild sex with you. “I didn’t think of those things. I was in a panic, babe. Someone had just shot at you. I realized that in that instant of my carelessness, you could have been dead. I should have been protecting you, and I failed. And that shook me up.” His voice cracked with emotion at the end.

  Her face softened somewhat, then hardened up again. “You might very well think that was your motive, but I believe that in a panic situation like that, true feelings come out. I don’t doubt that you care about me, in your own way, and that you were worried about me, but bottom line, you did not want forever. You wanted a fling. Don’t interrupt me,” she said when he was about to disagree with just about everything she said. “I don’t blame you for the fling thing. I’d already decided to have a fling myself when I pulled that pistol on you. In the end, though, I realized that I deserve better than that.”

  “Yes, you do, Charmaine, and that’s what I’m offering you.”

  He could tell that she didn’t want to ask, but she did. “What do you mean?”

  “I love you. I want to be with you. Forever.”

  She said nothing, just stared at him.

  He’d stated his case. There was nothing more to be said. He wasn’t going to beg . . . well, he would beg if he thought it would work, but he was pretty sure Charmaine wouldn’t like begging.

  Her silence spoke volumes. She wasn’t going to forgive him. She didn’t love him anymore. Hell, maybe she never had.

  It was going to be the longest hour in history if he had to sit here in the quiet after spilling his guts and baring his soul. If women only knew how much control they had in man-woman relationships!

  God, it’s hot in here. He reached for his T-shirt to dry his hair and face, then rubbed it down his arms and over his chest. Mid-rub, he looked up to see Charmaine staring avidly at his actions. Then she licked her lips.

  Okaaaay. She likes to watch me . . . touch myself? He wondered if he could pull off his next move, then shrugged. What do I have to lose?

  Standing up, he shimmied out of his briefs, not surprised to see that he was already half-erect. He noticed something important then: Charmaine wasn’t squealing over his nudity. That had to be a good sign. She might not love him anymore, but she liked some things about him. It was a start.

  “Do you know what’s a favorite male sexual fantasy?”

  That got her attention. “I don’t want to know.”

  She wants to know, all right. “They like to watch—”

  “Like that’s something new!”

  “—their women touch themselves.”

  She pretended to examine her fingernails with disinterest in what he was saying.

  “I was wondering if women like to watch their men? Touch themselves?” Did I really say that? Where do I come up with this stuff?

  She didn’t respond to his question but she’d stopped checking out her fingernails.

  He filled a ladle with water from the bucket on the floor, water that was presumably used to toss onto the hot coals and cause steam. Then he leaned back against the blistering hot wood of the sauna, buck naked, with sweat running off his skin in rivulets and dumped the water over his head, to cool himself off, which it did not do. Then he began to touch himself.

  I hope I’m not making a fool of myself. Hell, I’ve already made a fool of myself. How much worse can I look?

  He traced his lips with a forefinger
and said, “When I touch my mouth, I imagine that you’re kissing me. Those soft kisses you give at first, when you’re exploring just how far you can push me.”

  She watched him and licked her own lips.

  “I love you, Charmaine.” He stretched his arms overhead, then ran his palms over his arms, from wrist to shoulder, from armpit to inner wrist, as if he were washing himself.

  Her nipples bloomed under the tight T-shirt.

  He touched his own nipples, and, holy hell, it felt good. Real good. “Imagine I’m doing this to you, honey,” he said softly. “And imagine how much I love you.”

  She was imagining. He could tell by her parted lips and the way she arched her back slightly.

  He swept his palms over his upper abdomen and his belly, his hips and buttocks, always getting close to, but not touching his cock, which liked what he was doing. A lot.

  She liked it, too. A lot.

  Standing, she leaned back against the opposite wall and whimpered, “Why are you torturing me?”

  I’m torturing her? Whoo-ee, I’m better than I thought. “Because I want to make love to you, but since you won’t let me touch you, it’s the next best thing. Take off your clothes, baby, please.”

  “No,” she said, at the same time lifting her T-shirt over her head and shoving her stretchy skirt to the floor, then kicking it aside. She wore only a white lace bra and bikini panties under panty hose, along with the red high heels.

  His Longfellow showed his appreciation by growing another inch . . . or five.

  “I love you,” he said, and began his whole touching routine all over again, starting with his lips. There was no way he could touch his penis at this point without ending the game too soon.

  But the game took on a new twist as Charmaine mirrored his actions. Touching her lips. Her arms. Her breasts. Her flat belly.

  “Take it all off,” he gasped out.

  And she did, God bless her.

  “Put the shoes back on,” he urged.

  And God bless her again, she did as he’d asked. She was curved in all the right places, her breasts a visual delight, the dark curls at her groin an almost painful temptation.

  “You look like one of those Vargas pictures in Playboy magazine,” he told her in a testosterone-husky voice. “The perfect pinup.”

  “Is that a compliment?” she asked shyly.

  “For sure.” Then, “What do you want me to do now?”

  “Touch yourself.”

  I thought you’d never ask. He did as she’d instructed, watching her the whole time. He would probably embarrass himself any second now, but he didn’t care. He was going to do everything she wanted. He was determined not to make any mistakes this time.

  “I love you,” he said again as sweat rolled off him in waves and he felt as if his eyeballs were going to roll back in his head.

  Sweat rolled off her, too. Rather, she glowed to beat the band.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “What?” he asked, not sure he’d heard right.

  “I love you, too. I’ll probably regret this five minutes from now, but . . .” She opened her arms to him.

  He was across the small space separating them before she could blink. In an even shorter time frame he had her braced against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, and himself embedded deep inside her.

  He could have wept for the sheer ecstasy of being inside Charmaine. He could not speak, but he did moan a long, “Aaaaaaaah!” As he pounded into her—she would probably have splinters in her backside, but he couldn’t slow down for the life of him—he kept repeating, “I love you.”

  And she kept murmuring, “Shhhh.”

  Outside the sauna door, the band was playing yet another rendition of “The Cajun Cowboy.” They must have moved the frickin’ parade inside the beauty spa. Did they bring the horses in, too? He couldn’t think about that now.

  Wet, slapping sounds resounded in the room from their slick skins meeting and from the moist sounds of their ardent lovemaking. Sweet, sweet raw sex!

  As she entered her second orgasm, milking him with mind-blowing ecstasy, he choked out, “Forever. I promise.”

  “Shhhh,” she whispered again. “I love you, too. We’ll work it out.”

  His strokes became shorter and harder.

  “Come home with me,” he yelled out then as he came into her with hot spurts.

  And she did, in fact, come home with him . . . in more ways than one.

  Epilogue

  The Cajun Cowboy takes a bride . . . again . . .

  Raoul and Charmaine Lanier renewed their wedding vows on Christmas Eve at the Triple L Ranch, just as Tante Lulu had planned all along.

  The inside and outside of the ranch house were decorated to the gills with more lights than Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. In fact, a fuse had blown three times so far, throwing them into total darkness. The Christmas tree beside which they’d spoken their vows with the blessing of Father Girard, who’d come up from Our Lady of the Bayou Church, was so big it had taken three men to get it inside. There was enough food cooking back in the kitchen to feed three armies, including meat loaf and a peach wedding cake, of all things.

  But Raoul could not care. Charmaine was back in his arms again, and he was never going to let her go.

  Clarence acted as Raoul’s best man, and he looked so spiffy in his tuxedo with a string tie that a few old ladies in the audience were heard to comment, “What a hunk!” Luc, Remy, Tee-John, and Jimmy were groomsmen or ushers—equally hunkish, in everyone’s opinion. Linc sang the lyrics to a song he’d written just for them, “Love Renewed,” accompanied by soulful accordion music provided by René.

  Later they played the peach orchard song, which Linc’s ancestor, A.B. Lincoln, had sung at another wedding more than 150 years ago. Raoul was heard to say, “I can’t wait till you shake my tree, Charmaine.” And Charmaine responded, “Wait till you see the peaches I have for you, baby.”

  They planned to spend their honeymoon at The Lucky Duck motel in the special “Webbing Suite.”

  Charmaine’s maid-of-honor was Tante Lulu, who beamed through the entire event, as if she’d arranged it all. Which she had, of course, with the help of St. Jude, who stood next to the priest, beaming, as well. Her bridesmaids were Sylvie, Rachel and two of the hairdressers from her salon. Luc and Sylvie’s three little ones were flower girls, twirling their long dresses through the whole ceremony.

  The bride wore red. Yes, red. A thigh-high sheath dress, which hugged her body, with a square neckline and cap sleeves. Demure, by Charmaine’s standards. On her feet were Raoul’s favorite red high heels.

  Before the ceremony, she confided to Raoul, “I’m not wearing anything underneath.” To which he was said to smile and reply, “Me neither.”

  The bride was given away by her mother Fleur who planned to open a stripper school in New Orleans, thanks to the expected publicity from her soon-to-be published nude photo shoot. Charmaine was heard to comment, “Whatever!”

  The groom’s mother did not attend owing to previous commitments, but she did send her good wishes. Raoul was heard to comment, “Whatever!”

  For a combination Christmas/wedding present, Charmaine gave Raoul a German shepherd puppy to replace the one he’d had years ago. Raoul gave her the architectural drawings for the dude ranch/health spa that would open here at the Triple L next fall. They would operate it together, with him running a veterinary clinic on the side. There would be more than enough money for all this with the civil suit settlement they expected to receive from the police department and Blue Heron Oil.

  Everyone was at peace and happy at this special time of the year and at this most special event.

  Except Tante Lulu.

  She nabbed René as he was about to raise a toast to the newlyweds. “Have I given you a hope chest yet, boy?”

  Everyone who overheard exclaimed, as one, “Uh-oh!”

  Note to the Reader

  Dear Reader:

>   I hope you liked Charmaine’s story in The Cajun Cowboy. I grew to love her outrageousness in the other books of this LeDeux family series, but I never intended to write a separate novel for her. A heroine with four husbands? Not very sympathetic, I thought . . . originally. But as the books, and her character, developed, I knew she deserved her own story. It was such fun telling this tale of a good-hearted “bimbo” and a sexy-as-sin cowboy. And what’s not to like about Raoul Lanier?

  As always, I consider the Cajun culture and the southern Louisiana landscape almost like characters themselves. I love the fact that Louisiana is such a diverse state, most noted for its picturesque bayous, but just as beautiful are its prairies. Many people are not even aware that cattle ranches exist in Louisiana, and yet some say it was the birthplace of the Old West.

  I try to get things right, but many of you told me that a true Southerner would know that you don’t peel okra. Ooops! My apologies. Can you tell I’ve never eaten okra?

  Please check out my Web site for Cajun links to wonderful music, recipes, cowboy clubs, charities, gift shops, and humor. And another contest.

  Next up is René’s story, which is called The Red-Hot Cajun. All I can say is it’s an especially hot summer in Terrebonne Parish, Tante Lulu has developed a sudden crush on exercise guru Richard Simmons, René is burned-out from his lobbyist work and hiding out in the bayous where he is building his own log home, and a bunch of wacky environmentalist friends kidnap a celebrity TV reporter and dump her in René’s lap. Literally. I promise you this: The LeDeux family is back, and René is the hottest of the bunch.

  After that, who knows? Do you think Tee-John will have grown up by then? I already have some ideas about the rogue he will become. How about you?

  I enjoy hearing from readers and wish you much good reading in your future, hopefully with a bit of humor tossed in.