BayouBabe99er (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Mickie Sherwood

  “Skeeta,” they said in unison and had a good laugh afterward.

  Sharlene wiped her hands on her napkin. Her chair scraped when she rose to kiss his cheek. He beamed at her as she reclaimed her seat just as the bells clanged when the front door opened. A new customer stepped in.

  “Miss Mouton,” Drake Cormier greeted. He smiled when she turned at his salutation.

  He definitely looked completely different dried and creased. “I never told you my name.” Her retort drew Uncle Moot’s keen interest. “This is the catch I told you I made the other day,” she informed.

  “No, you didn’t. I found out from—”

  “Well, Moot? What ’cha think?” Clyde made his way over to them.

  “Him,” Drake continued his answer.

  Uncle Moot’s reply was none too friendly. “I think you got a big mouth, Clyde. That’s what I think. You know this boy?”

  “Look at him good, Moot.” Clyde’s defense was still to come. “Who do he look like to you?”

  All of them gave the newcomer the once-over. Uncle Moot even stood as if measuring Drake’s stature against his own tall, although slightly stooped, frame. The resemblance to his old nemesis was an eye opener.

  “You a Cormier, ain’t ’cha, boy?” Clyde bellowed.

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Drake admitted.

  “Knew it when I first laid eyes on you.” Clyde wiped his hands on his apron. “You folks finished?”

  “Not me.” Sharlene resumed her meal while monitoring all that went on.

  Clyde took Moot’s plate before addressing Drake. “What ’cha having, son?”

  * * * *

  “Nothing for me. Thanks.” He didn’t have time to eat. It was too close to meeting time. “I will take one of those strawberry drinks.”

  “Coming right up. Take a load off.” He invited Drake to join his other two customers.

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  She quipped, “It’s a free world.”

  “No, Sha. Everything got a price.”

  Drake looked at the man who seemed to take exception to his presence as he eyed him long and hard. The urge to look at Sharlene was just too great to ignore. His view switched. She was stunning. He admired her cute little fro, her smooth, silky-looking brown-sugar skin and her inquisitive look that searched his inner being.

  “Uncle Moot, meet Drake Cormier. He says he doesn’t bite.”

  Uncle Moot leaped to his feet without warning. “Cormier wit’ teeth…bites.”

  Drake observed as the testy old man stomped to the door. The last of Sharlene’s tasty drink swirled in the bottle as she struggled out of her corner seat. It was said haste made waste. Sharlene proved that to be so. Tripping over her own feet landed her where she had no right to be—smack dab in Drake’s lap.

  His hands connected with her body right at the hips. A deep breath filled his lungs with her soft, rose-petal scent. Her body’s stiffening alerted him to her embarrassment. At that point, Drake expected her to go on the defensive.

  But she didn’t.

  * * * *

  Oh, my God! She hoped he didn’t feel her trembles as her insides shriveled from the heat of his touch. Each long digit on her body singed her skin. If she didn’t move—and move soon—she would certainly smolder into ashes.

  “I’m sorry,” she uttered. He boosted her as she attempted to rise from such a compromising position.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Skeeta!” Uncle Moot yelled from the walkway.

  “Coming, Uncle.” Embarrassed at the public use of her childhood nickname, Sharlene made a hasty exit, fighting down the giddy feeling that lingered. She reacted more like a schoolgirl. Her elder’s admonishment spurred her on. But the jolting physical contact made her senses reel. A look back as she retreated let her see Drake and the wide-toothed smile on his swarthy features.

  Chapter Three

  “Order! Order!”

  Tempers in the audience flared. Angry yells were directed at the panel lining the dais.

  “Please, everyone!”

  Residents packed the small school gym to the rafters and announced their disapproval with loud, objecting rants. They had the appearance of hardworking people because that was what they were. They were people connected on one accord in the face of their community’s possible extinction.

  “Ya’ll can take yo’ oily money and stick it where the sun don’t shine,” one disgruntled participant yelled.

  “It was an offer some of your neighbors found very generous.”

  “Traitors!”

  “Sellouts!”

  “Who sold out?” Sharlene leaned over to loudly whisper in Moot’s ear.

  “Folks ya never woulda thought. Guess love of money topped heritage.”

  The panelist said, “We’ve brought with us this afternoon someone to help all of you cut through the red tape of your claims.”

  “We not selling!” the man behind Sharlene yelled. “Clean up yo’ mess and get out!”

  “The oil company’s success of the cleanup is clearly seen around the pumping stations in the Gulf’s perimeter. Pretty soon, you’ll be able to resume your fishing businesses in pristine waters.”

  “Oil’s been leaking outta some of them pumps for decades. Your company counts the amount as negligible. No big deal!” someone contested. “It is a big deal if the seafood tastes like crude.”

  “Uncle, what the company spokesperson said is not true.” Sharlene defied the notion of clear water. “I saw oil residue in the Pass.”

  His look said he wasn’t surprised.

  Another member of the panel took the mike for the handoff. “Please give your undivided attention to our next committee member.”

  The man bounding up the steps to accept the mike was tall, dark, and sinfully handsome. “Good evening, everyone. I’m Drake Cormier, the liaison officer.”

  Sharlene sat straighter on the bleachers.

  Moot snorted. “Tol’ ya he bites.”

  “I know this is a very frustrating time for all of you. It’s my pledge to speed up the payment process. The swifter things move, the faster you get on with your lives.” Drake’s commanding presence caused a lull in the heckling. “Each head of household here should have a packet like this one distributed this evening.” He held up a golden envelope. “In that material is complete instructions on how to place your claim. A website address and telephone numbers are provided to answer questions that may arise.” Pacing to center stage, he added, “Remember, I’m here to help.”

  “The so-called compensation I’ve heard isn’t enough to make up the difference of what we’ve already lost,” a voice in the crowd sneered.

  “Got bills I can’t pay ’cause I can’t fish!”

  “I understand—”

  Drake didn’t get the opportunity to finish.

  “Don’t say you understand how we feel, Mr. Highfalutin!”

  Drake never lost his outward composure. He began his statement, again. “I understand—the importance of returning your lives to normalcy. My intent is to help you do that.”

  “What about the oil collecting in the Pass?” Sharlene was on her feet as the question spilled out. His double-fisted grip on the mike produced feedback when his thumbs did that nervous thump she’d witnessed on the boat. “How does your company plan to ensure for the cleanup? To protect the people’s safety and their health from the effects of the oil?”

  “Health issues aren’t a remote concern seeing that the accident occurred offshore.” He then called her out. “Ms. Mouton, this meeting is for the residents of this community. Do you fall into that category?”

  “Corm-i-er!” All eyes swung in Moot’s direction. He rose with purpose. “Don’t let yo’ mouth get yo’ ass kicked.”

  The shoo-shooing started in the audience.

  “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Mouton.” He wasn’t feeling any Southern hospitality.

  “They might not know who you are. But I do.”

  “You’r
e right, sir. I should have made my connection known. I’m a distant relative of the Cormiers who used to live here.” Drake tried to relate to Pauchex Pass’s residents. “That means I have a personal stake in helping the people here.”

  “Or—ya tryin’ to smooth over the damage!” Moot challenged.

  * * * *

  Drake couldn’t mistake the pure hatred Moot displayed when he looked at him. “I’m here to help, not hurt, Mr. Mouton. Give me a chance to prove it to you.”

  “Then answer Sha’s question. When will the cleanup of the Pass start?”

  “Actually, there is no evidence of trouble in that area.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it,” Sharlene argued.

  “Evidence is the operative word, Ms. Mouton.” Drake turned to the panel. “Pauchex Pass is miles from the origin of the spill. But there’s a visible sheen along that route.”

  A panelist contended, “Probably nothing to do with why we’re here.”

  “Here we go,” said a voice in the crowd. The buzz continued around the gym.

  His eyes strayed to Sharlene. Her lovely face relayed none of the angst he suspected she felt. The dead-on glare she hurled his way said more than any words could express. He broke eye contact because now was not the time for a one-on-one debate in front of a hostile audience.

  “Look,” he started. Drake took the steps down and planted himself firmly in their midst. “Now, the panel will present this new concern for investigation.”

  Murmurs from the bleachers grew aggressive. “It’ll get buried just like our little town.”

  “Trust me. I won’t let that happen.”

  One of the committee members jumped to commandeer the floor. “We respect what we’ve heard this evening. Mr. Cormier’s passion is to be commended.” Drake raised his eyebrows in surprise at the snub. “What we need from you is your cooperation,” the member continued. “Take care of your part and our company will handle the rest.”

  The people on the dais stood.

  “Thank you for coming.” The facilitator closed the discussion with those words against the wishes of the residents.

  They swarmed the floor as the panel disappeared through the side doors. “Traitor!”

  Drake felt the sting of that slur. He squared his shoulders on the walk to his vehicle, feeling inept at easing the pain so many experienced. A chance encounter with the disrespectful panel member was too good to pass up. “You do plan on reporting the situation at Pauchex Pass?”

  “Listen, Cormier. Don’t stir up more trouble than we already have. You are the go-between. Not the people’s spokesperson.”

  Incensed, Drake challenged. “If you don’t look into this matter, I’ll have no alternative but to submit the suspicions myself.”

  “You’ll have an answer by the end of the week.” The man’s whole demeanor swelled in rage. He confronted Drake with, “Better remember who you work for, Cormier” and marched off.

  The implied threat set Drake on fire.

  His mind stayed on the troubles he knew to come as he slid behind the wheel. The decision to volunteer as the middleman came about when he witnessed the despair on numerous news reports. The sight compelled him to act. This added crimp had him question whether he could positively impact the outcome for the people.

  Beating outside on the hood of his rental stifled the thoughts roiling in his head. The culprit never stopped moving and was out of sight when Drake stepped out of the car. He endured caustic glances as people milled around in the parking lot, at odds with approaching him directly or going about their business. He watched worry etch every face.

  It wasn’t long before he was one of the few who remained outside the gym in moderate darkness. The period of time he stood like a statue cemented in his brain the difficulty of his task. Something told him fairness and profit was like oil and water. Right now, he could think of no way to get the two to mix.

  Drake entered his car in a contemplative mood. To add fuel to the fire, Sharlene and her uncle strolled by him as if he was non-existent. He conceded this looked to be a tough assignment. However, the tools for developing a compromise strategy just got into their rust-red pickup and drove away.

  Chapter Four

  BayouBabe99er with the latest on the Gulf crisis. The oil’s not the only thing slick down here. What’s another name for the yucky, green slime in ditches? If you answered “scum,” you’d be right on the money. The scum I’m speaking of walks on two feet and makes believe he has the best interest of the people at heart. Some may call Louisianians daft. But—I beg to differ. Stay tuned for more.

  Sharlene awoke in the doldrums a week after the big meeting. She muddled through the morning a bit perturbed her Uncle Moot sneaked out on a compensated fishing expedition without inviting her. There was no way he misunderstood her desire to accompany him. She made that clear last night.

  The rocker squeaked on the wooden planks of the front porch as she sipped from her coffee mug.

  Swamp sounds marred the quiet morning, from the fowls’ in-flight cries from branch to branch—to the croaking bullfrogs in the brush. Sticky humidity hung low, settling all over her. She hadn’t bothered to change and lounged about in soft, cottony sleep pants topped with a short, ribbed undershirt. Quite frankly, she was surprised anyone would pay to fish in the waters around there. In her opinion, it provided proof to the theory money, power, and access skewed the perception and minimized the fallout of the spill. The company’s ad campaigns succeeded.

  On the other hand, some people had work.

  Boredom drove her from the chair to meander the dirt path to the dock. The water bi-way barely allowed small craft traffic to pass. Its use was primarily as a backdoor to and from the village when the road was impassable. It took a pro to navigate the invisible pitfalls.

  “Going in for a drink?”

  She didn’t startle at the voice behind her. Her heart did. “Lost, Mr. Cormier?”

  He wanted to share more time with her each time he saw her. Drake walked right up next to Sharlene, immersing himself in more than nature’s eye-catching beauty. The sky streaked cobalt blue through the tops of the Cypress trees. The eastern sun hit them with powerful rays. At least he saw no ecological damage from their current viewpoint.

  She already faced him when he looked down. His answer was yes, he was lost. He lost himself in the depths of her soulful eyes. “I came to solicit help.”

  “Un–Uncle Moot isn’t home,” she stuttered. Sharlene sidestepped him to lessen the fizzle fusing them together. “Anyway, you know that’s not likely to happen. You’re the enemy.”

  Her move failed to sever the underlying current.

  “He holds grudges,” Drake announced.

  She had to agree. “For some reason, particularly against Cormiers.”

  “Something happened that soured the relationship shared with some of my kin.” He had her undivided attention. “I guessed that much. I suppose blood makes me guilty, too.”

  “Along with working for the oil company culpable in this entire mess.” The Mouton in her came out. “What is it you want from my uncle?”

  “A ride through the marsh.”

  Sharlene wondered about that request. “You’re just the liaison officer. Shouldn’t any investigative research be done by the experts?”

  * * * *

  Drake circled to lean with his back against the sun, admiring the woman before him. She was the epitome of loveliness and unintentionally rattled his chain. He was thirty-four but felt like a teen on his first date. “Actually, there isn’t going to be any investigation.”

  “You’re kidding!” she nearly shouted, shading her eyes with her hand. “Right?”

  “Over the past week, a research team collected and examined residue from the Pass. Their findings substantiated the company’s initial denial of further compensation related to unsupported loss of revenue.”

  Sharlene’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I’m sick and tired of greed winning out.
Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  “What’re you going to do?” The sight of her sashaying off was daunting.

  Sharlene paused to turn back. “Change and take you where you need to go.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait?” he asked worriedly.

  “I think it’s now or never, Mr. Cormier.”

  “It’s Drake, Sharlene.” He thought she blushed. “If you’re game—I’m game.”

  “Be right back,” she huffed and strutted off.

  Watching her go was his thrill of the morning. He scoped out the Mouton habitat, concluding it had rustic charm. The log cabin home stood high in the air on pilings. The outer buildings hinted at activities he hoped never to be an active participant in, like the skinned animals grimacing on the walls.

  A door slammed, breaking into his observation.

  She appeared on the porch. “Let’s get going.”

  He noticed Sharlene dressed for the hot, humid weather and didn’t show up empty-handed.

  In her possession were items necessary for a trip in the swamp. A compass dangled from her wrist. Strips of vibrant cloth slung over her shoulder. A boonie hat rested on her head. Along with all of that, she juggled a beige and brown crock jar containing cool, fresh water.

  Drake tracked all of her moves.

  “I can use your help over here.”

  He closed in on her as she accessed the shed. Once he got there, he took possession of the bulky items she transferred to him. Drake came to her rescue when the tippy-toed reach she made for the pole stored overhead was just shy of her snagging it. “Let me get that,” he offered.

  His release of the pole marched him behind her, right out to the dock. Drake grasped the overhead lines of the moored skiff.

  “No,” she whispered.

  The warm, soft hand on his arm halted him. He gazed down at her ring-adorned left hand—happy, for some reason, the jewelry was on her pinkie finger.

  Sharlene bumped the hanging skiff, tilting it with the pole. The questioning look he threw drew a response. “Just wait.” She tried again and heard a rustling on the canvass cover above their heads. One more thump and the snake plopped to the ground, curled for action.