The Final Turn (Cajun Cowboys Book 2)

by Patricia Watters

  Ace turned his hand around and bent his fingers, noting a thin sliver of dirt under each nail, even though he'd scrubbed his hands before coming. "Touché."

  Piper smiled and held his gaze a few seconds, long enough to have him thinking they'd made some kind of connection, but short enough to figure it was in his head when she immediately turned to Edgar, and said, "I noticed you wore only one pair of goggles today, but I've heard you often wear multiples, sometimes as many as six. Is it true?"

  "It's true. I'm there to win which means making multiple decisions while coaxing the best run out of my horse, and to do that I need to see clearly, so before every race I hope I've judged the number of goggles I'm wearing with the distance, and not run out before the finish line."

  Piper's brows gathered. "You can't possibly see much from side to side when you're running in a pack while wearing that many goggles."

  Edgar shrugged. "The ones I wear are super thin, well-ventilated, disposable and cheap, and they stack well. As the race unfolds I pull the next pair down and repeat it as I go around the track. But it's not only with muddy tracks on rainy days you need goggles. It can be a dry day and they've watered the track, which means mud in your face if you're not in front."

  Piper's eyes brightened. "Then I'll plan on whizzing to the front of the pack out of the gate and staying there till the finish because wearing six pairs of goggles seems as daunting as walking on eight inch stiletto heels."

  While Piper talked to Edgar, Ace couldn't help noting how animated her face was. He was aware of other things too, things he'd never noticed before, like the glint in her hazel eyes when she listened with interest to what Edgar was saying, and the angle of her lips as they changed with her expressions or her words, and the graceful curve of her neck, and the little lacy collar that seemed to draw his attention to what lay beneath it, along with a desire to feel the soft flesh under the silky fabric of her dress.

  The musicians taking a break interrupted his stupor, but a Nano-second later he was drawn back to Piper, like filings to a magnet. In that moment she looked across the table and held his gaze, and he'd swear her face flushed. And when she licked her bottom lip and caught it between her teeth, and her nostrils flared, he was seized with a fever of the flesh he'd never experienced. With that awareness the space between them seemed charged with a field of potent energy.

  The connection disintegrated when Piper broke eye contact, and said to Edgar, "Sorry, I missed what you were saying, something about hands." She seemed fully connected with Edgar again, leaving Ace wondering if he'd been caught in some kind of time warp.

  Edgar nodded. "I was talkin' about when you're runnin' in a pack. It's all in the hands. You gotta be able to finesse your mount when makin' your way to the front because there ain’t no way to control a half-ton horse when ridin' in a field of a dozen or more horses. But you also gotta develop a clock in your head and that comes with ridin' with a stop watch. After years of doin' it you'll be able to time an eighth-of-a-mile to the second."

  "Actually, I've been doing that for years," Piper said. "At this point, when galloping or breezing I can predict the quarter mile to within a second."

  "Then you're already ahead of most apprentice jocks." Edgar focused on the wide-open barn door and smiled. "Well, here's my wife so I'll probably see you hoppin' around the dance floor. And best of luck. You got what it takes. Convince some trainer around here to give you a chance and you'll prove it." He eyed Pépère, then took his plate and utensils and dumped them in a trash can and headed toward his wife.

  Immediately afterwards, one of Ace's cousins bent over their grandfather, and pointing to a huddle of men sitting at a table, reminded him that they were waiting for some of his Boudreau-Thibodeau jokes. He nodded and stood, but before leaving, he gave Ace one final look that Piper wouldn't have seen because he was standing behind her, but his message was clear. Don't get trapped. She's a Harrison. He turned and walked off.

  Piper stared at Ace from across an otherwise empty table, like she didn't know what to do, which he found a little amusing. She was the one to set the rules by sandwiching herself between Edgar and Pépère instead of sitting beside him, so as awkward as it was, he eyed her across the table, smiled cordially, and stayed where he was. But not for long.

  The band broke into a mélange of Cajun and Zydeco, adding a second fiddler to a core group that included Hank on the bass, Pike on his guitar, their cousin, Virgil, on an accordion, and another cousin, Casey, with his new frottoir, the trademark instrument of Zydeco. Instead of spoons scraping a washboard though, Casey kept a lively rhythm using bottle openers on the corrugated surface of his frottoir, which he wore like a vest with shoulder straps.

  As dancers began filing onto the floor, Ace spotted another cousin, Buck, heading their way, eyes fixed on Piper. Being a racing quarter horse trainer, Buck was no doubt impressed with the way Piper handled her horse in the match race, and he'd set his sights on spending the rest of the fais do-do dancing with her, maybe approaching her about jockeying one of his horses. And he could imagine Piper seeing the advantage in aligning herself with Buck, maybe even in a romantic way since she didn't seem to be cut out of the same fabric as the rest of the Harrisons.

  Nothing fancy or uppity about her. And that dress, soft and flowery, with its little white collar and cuffs on its short sleeves, she looked about as sweet and pretty as a farm girl in Momma's time, someone half the guys there would have a hankerin' to spin around the floor.

  Hastily he stood and gestured to Buck to back off, and by the time Piper glanced around to see who he was motioning to, Buck had zeroed in on another dance partner.

  Deciding to deter any further rivals, Ace scratched his original plan and moved around the table to sit beside Piper, then leaned toward her like they were having a conversation. "You want me to get you some more food so you don't pass out on the dance floor?" He figured keeping her eating would also keep potential dance partners at bay.

  Piper shook her head. "I'm good for now, but I never got a chance to ask your grandfather about giving Rags carrots, mints and her squeaky toy."

  Ace looked at her, perplexed. "Squeaky toy?"

  "Her rubber chicken. It's got a squeaker inside and she grabs it in her teeth and shakes it up and down. She loves it. I'd really like to bring everything to her now."

  Which eliminated dancing with him, Ace realized. "She's sleeping."

  "She can't always be sleeping," Piper said, irritated.

  "She is now because I fed her just before comin' here and she always naps after bein' fed. Maybe if you stay long enough she'll be through napping."

  Piper eyed him, skeptically. "How long are we talking?"

  "Does it matter? Wouldn't you rather be dancin' and havin' a good time instead of listening to your father and grandmother chewin' you out for what you did?"

  "Okay, you have a valid point. Maybe I'll stay a little longer."

  The discussion was cut short when the music stopped and Pike stepped to the microphone. When he had everyone's attention, he said, "Next is probably the most recognizable Cajun song ever, and it was written by Vermilion Parish's own D.L. Menard. The Back Door."

  After the cheers and applause died, Pike continued. "What makes this song special is, back when D.L. couldn't find anyone willin' to record it, he paid to have it done himself and when it was released it sold over a half million copies. And now, over a half-century later, as soon as the first notes are struck, most Cajuns know the chorus, so sing along with me when we come to J'ai passe' dedans la porte d'en arriere."

  Pike started in, and with a style reminiscent of Hank Williams, began strumming on his guitar and singing to the accompaniment of two fiddles, an accordion and Casey's frottoir…

  "Moi et ma belle on avait été au bal

  On a passé dans tout les honky tonks,

  S’en a revenu lendemain matin

  Le jour était après se casser…"

  When he came to the chorus, the room filled w
ith voices, singing…

  "J’ai passé dedans la porte en arrière."

  While Pike continued the song, Piper glanced sidelong at Ace, and said, "Everyone's singing in French. Do y'all speak French at home?"

  Ace shook his head. "My grandfather does sometimes when his friends come by, but the rest of us only speak French when singin' Cajun songs."

  When Piper said nothing more, Ace saw she was absorbed in watching the dancers, like she might consider doing it if she had a partner. "You look like you're thinkin' about dancin'."

  "I don't know. Maybe. It would give me a chance to try out what I learned."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Anne taught me how to two-step and I've never tried it, and that guy across the barn keeps motioning for me to come dance with him."

  Ace glanced around and saw Buck eyeballing Piper, a big grin on his face. While glaring at one of his least favorite kin, he said to Piper, "That's my cousin, Buck. He goes after any new woman who shows up at these things. Go dance with him if you want, but I'm thinkin' the filly must be finished her nap by now so if you want to give her those carrots I'll walk you out there."

  "What about asking your grandfather?"

  Ace looked to where Pépère sat in a circle of friends, all staring at him in rapt attention while waiting for the punch line of his joke, and said, "I'll square it away with him tomorrow."

  "He doesn't really care, does he?"

  Ace shrugged. "Probably not."

  "Then why did you tell me he did?"

  "I didn't. I only suggested you ask him since he's in charge of trainin', but what he doesn't know won't hurt. So, where are the carrots?"

  Piper raised her big pink bag. "In here with the mints and her squeaky toy."

  "Then, come on and let's get the princess up."

  As they walked toward the stables, Piper said, "Your telling me I had to ask your grandfather about giving Rags carrots was kind of a little white lie. Is that the way Cajuns are? Tell a lie and have it erased at confession?"

  "No, chère, that's the way we are when we have ulterior motives."

  Piper looked askance at him. "Ulterior in what way? I'm just going out there to pass out carrots, mints and Rag's toy."

  A lazy grin tugged at Ace's lips. "Ulterior as in watching while you do that. You look real pretty in that dress. As for lyin', whenever we got caught doin' that Momma took out her paint stirrer and swat us on the behind while sayin' with each lick, 'DON'T—YOU—EVER—LIE—TO—ME—AGAIN. YOU—HEAR—ME? YOU—HEAR—ME!' It was kinda funny because I always felt like sayin', 'No, Momma, I don't hear you,' which would get me another likin' so I'd nod and run off."

  "Did your Momma ever swat you for having ulterior motives?"

  Ace caught the twinkle of humor in Piper's eyes. "No, Daddy took care of things like that. When a water pipe broke behind the barn my cousins Virgil, Mudcat and I wanted to have a mud fight, but Momma told us we'd get a lickin' if we did because she didn't feel like scrubbin' mud out of our hair, ears and parts unseen, but that mud was too tempting. By the time Daddy came to see what all the ruckus was about we were wallowin' around with mud up to our eyeballs. I was set to have him drag me by the ear to the house to face Momma, but instead, he warned us of the danger of playin' in mud, that it would scramble our brains and make us backwards. Figurin' he was feedin' us a line, I said, 'Bein' in mud can't scramble brains.' And Daddy said, 'course it can. Why do ya think crawfish walk backwards?' Which made sense. So we scurried outta the mud."

  "Yeah, but by then the damage was done."

  Ace turned to find a teasing smile on Piper's lips, almost as if she was flirting. And wearing that flowered dress, she was about as feminine as any female he'd ever seen, which had him thinking he could get addicted to this woman.

  Except inside that alluring little package was a fighting banty hen, a formidable jouster, and a cutthroat killer jockey. Which presented a challenge to anyone with romantic aims, and that made the package even more tantalizing.

  Don't get trapped. She's a Harrison. He could almost hear Pépère's unspoken words.

  But for now he'd ignore those words and tempt a little fate.

  CHAPTER 7

  While walking with Ace toward the stable, Piper was aware of him treating her differently, placing his hand on the small of her back as they left the barn, taking her elbow to guide her around a wheelbarrow with sacks of grain, stepping ahead to move a pitchfork partly blocking the way. It was comical the way he was behaving, treating her like a lady simply because she wore a dress, when a few hours before she'd been careening around a track at breakneck speed while crouched on a horse. It was a side of Ace she never expected, but kinda liked.

  The ironic thing was, she hadn't planned on attending the fais do-do at all, much less dressed the way she was. The afternoon took a sudden turn when everyone arrived back from the race in New Orleans earlier than expected, and when she saw the entourage coming down the drive, she decided to beat it out of there before Nana would unload her version of what went on earlier.

  Not wanting to get trapped while changing clothes in her bedroom and have to explain anything, she told her parents she had plans for the afternoon and evening and made a hasty exit. Her destination, Abbeville.

  Having left in her dirty riding gear, the most logical thing was to buy a change of clothes, which she'd wear to the fais do-do. She hadn't decided what to buy, whether jeans or a skirt and blouse to blend in, but on passing a resale shop she had a wacky impulse to do her shopping there. Once inside, she zeroed in on a long rack with dresses and decided to take a look. On sorting through the petites and spotting the flowery dress with plain lines and little white collar and narrow white cuffs on its short sleeves, like something from a different era, she found herself giggling, which caught the sale's lady's notice. "I'm going to a Cajun fais do-do," she explained. "There'll be a guy there who challenged me to wear a dress, and I want to throw him a curve."

  "Then he's someone special?" the lady asked.

  "Heaven's no! That is he's… I suppose, handsomer than most, and he's reasonably well-built, actually pretty muscular, but he's not special. He's really kind of a jerk." She lifted the hanger from the rack. "This will do fine. And that pink handbag over there." She pointed to an oversized bag, a homemade-looking thing crafted out of loosely woven pink loops and lined also in pink, that was hanging on a pegboard with other purses and handbags.

  The woman fetched the bag and handed it to her, and after inspecting it, Piper concluded it was perfect for her new look, the thought of which had her chuckling softly. And she'd need something to replace her scuffed, dusty boots.

  A pair of yellow slipper-style shoes were a close enough match to the big yellow sunflowers on the dress, so she placed them on the counter with the dress and pink bag, which picked up the color of the poppies or dahlias, she wasn't sure what the pink flowers were, but they were big and bright, and pretty funky.

  Scooping up the assortment, she went into a fitting room where she changed clothes. On viewing herself in the long mirror, she had to purse her lips to keep from laughing aloud. The little white collar hugging her neck and the simple lines of the floral-patterned dress in its soft fabric were suggestive of Nana's day, though Nana wouldn't have been caught dead in such a get-up. One last touch and she'd be on her way.

  Addressing the sales lady, she said, "Maybe you have some kind of fastener for my hair?"

  "Right over here." The woman stepped to a glass enclosed case that held a wide-ranging display of hair do-dads.

  Spotting a large pink plastic clip that came across as something that might have been thrown from a Mardi Gras float, she said while pointing, "That one will do."

  With the sales lady's help, Piper threaded her fingers through her hair and swept it up and gave it a twist while the woman clipped it in place as best she could.

  On walking out of the shop, with the giant pink bag slung over her shoulder, her riding clothes and boots stuffed in a disc
arded rice sack, and her hair in an untidy knot with a few locks breaking free, Piper was certain anyone passing on the street would peg her as one of the swamp people in her Sunday best. The irony was, Ace actually liked her getup. And as illogical as it was, she'd reacted to his flattery when he said she looked real pretty in the dress, sending her heart skittering and a little frisson of warmth rippling through her…

  "Okay, Beauty, time to get up," Ace said, as they approached Rags's stall.

  "Beauty?" Piper looked askance at Ace, thinking the endearment kind of cute, especially for a scrubby-looking filly who was anything but beautiful.

  "Sleeping Beauty," Ace explained. "After about a week of non-stop nappin', the name stuck, and that's what she goes by now, even with Pépère."

  Piper smiled at the incongruity, an old curmudgeon like Henri Broussard viewing Rags with affection because that's what nicknames implied. She was pleased with the way they were treating Rags though, even if it seemed a pretty quirky way to train a racehorse.

  Peering over the stall door she saw Rags stretched out on her side with Gumbo curled up against her back. Gumbo lifted his goateed head and let out a soft baaa, but Rags remained where she was, until Piper said, "Rags, Mommy's here and I have your squeaky toy."

  In an instant Rags awakened from her dozing, rolled onto bent legs and stood, leading Piper to wonder if she had the wherewithal and intelligence to fake sleeping as a way of getting out of working. It was possible. Of all the horses she'd known and exercised over the years, Rags seemed intellectually miles ahead of the rest.

  Stretching her neck over the stall door, Rags nudged Piper's shoulder to produce the goods, which she did by reaching into the handbag. "Carrot here." She held up a carrot. "And here's your chicken. Which do you want first?"

  Rags grabbed her toy in her teeth and began shaking it vigorously up and down, until her energetic head-tossing sent a steady stream of squeaks echoing through the central corridor of the stable. When Rags accidentally dropped the toy, she rooted around in a foot-deep bed of rice hay, and finding the rubber chicken, started shaking and squeaking it again, bringing a burst of laughter from Ace, which was the norm whenever anyone saw Rags acting like a clown, which she had a penchant to do.