And this one looked ready to strike.
Mouth covered by shaking hands, the woman began to cry. “I asked Him to be gentle, and He sent a snake.” She swiped at her tears with the hem of her apron, then thrust her hand toward him with a weak smile. “I’m sorry. My name is Clothilde, Clothilde Trahan. How do you do?”
“Theophile Breaux.” He handed her his handkerchief. “You must be Joe’s girl.”
“Oui,” she said as she dabbed at her cheeks. “I’m his niece.”
He shook her hand. She sure was a pretty little thing. No bigger than a minute and covered in pine straw, yet he couldn’t recall when he’d seen anyone more appealing. He frowned. Last thing he needed was a distraction, and this brown-eyed beauty sure looked to be one. With little encouragement, he just might fall in love, and then where would he be?
Just like his papa, that’s where.
Focus, Breaux. Think of something besides her broad smile and that upturned nose.
What had she said about the snake? That someone sent it? Was she loony? Joe had mentioned his niece was a bit of a challenge, but he never stated specifically what he meant.
“What are you talking about? Who sent a snake?”
“God, I think.” She spared another quick look at the twitching remains before meeting his gaze. Her lower lip quivered a bit, but at least her tears had stopped. “You see, I know God corrects us when we do wrong, and I was. . .”
Theo jammed the point of the shovel into the soft earth, then leaned on the handle. They were heading for dangerous territory. She’d been watching him from the thicket, and now he couldn’t take his eyes off her. A gentleman, especially one in a hurry to get on down the road, would walk away right now and leave the lady to her concerns.
Well, he’d rarely been accused of doing what he ought. What was the harm in just a little more conversation while he watched the sun glint off her blue-black hair?
“You were what?” he asked with a mind to tease just a bit before he sent her home to her uncle.
“I was. . .” Her face colored the prettiest shade of pink. “Well, never mind what I was doing.”
“You were eavesdropping.”
She had the decency to appear ashamed. “Oui,” she said slowly, “I was.”
“You were hiding in the thicket, listening to everything we said.” He gave her the look he generally reserved for his younger brothers and sisters. “I should tell your uncle.”
Brown eyes opened wide. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
Rather than respond, he decided to say nothing and watch her squirm.
She offered a weak smile. “I have a good reason.”
“A good reason to do something wrong?” He leaned down to look her in the eyes. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Yes. I mean no.” She worried with the hem of her apron. “You see, I thought maybe I. . . Oh, goodness.”
“Goodness has got nothing to do with it, girl.” He tilted forward slightly and noted with satisfaction that the Trahan girl took a step back. “Was what you heard worth nearly getting snakebit?”
She shook her head.
“Was it worth whatever your uncle’s going to do when he hears about this?”
Again she shook her head. “No, but you don’t understand. If you tell him, it will ruin everything.”
There went the tears. Theo groaned. This girl shed more liquid than a rowboat with a plank missing.
Be strong, Breaux. Just walk away.
Of course, he ignored his own advice. “If I don’t tell your uncle, you’ll probably keep sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong until you run into something—or someone—worse than that snake there.”
“I think I already have.”
Theo grasped the end of the shovel and yanked hard to pull it out of the dirt. Slinging it over his shoulder, he turned and walked away.
❧
Why didn’t she keep her big mouth shut?
Cleo stepped over the carcass of the snake and headed after the Breaux fellow. If only she could make him see his way clear to keep quiet on her little indiscretion. Indiscretion? Who was she kidding? She’d blatantly ignored both her aunt and her uncle and hidden in a thicket like a common criminal, all in the hopes of learning whether or not a teacher had been chosen for the school.
She’d tried asking Tante Flo outright and Uncle Joe indirectly, but neither offered an answer as to who would be offered the task of teaching the children. Both knew she wanted the position, so repeating her wish would serve no purpose. It certainly hadn’t kept Uncle Joe from sending a letter to New Orleans to the teachers’ college to inquire about qualified applicants for the job.
Going to the reverend was out of the question because he would just inform Uncle Joe. If only she’d learned to take to heart some of the scriptures on patience she’d memorized through the years.
Cleo watched the broad back of the man who could single-handedly ruin her plans for the future. Stop him, Lord. Please.
Abruptly the man halted and whirled around to face her. “Get on home, little girl.”
Little girl? When would people see her as a full-grown woman of almost nineteen? Her uncle and aunt certainly didn’t, or they wouldn’t be ignoring her requests to hire on as a teacher for the bayou school. And this man. . .
Well, she would show them all.
She drew herself up to her full height and stalked toward Theophile Breaux. “Little girl?” she called as she closed the distance between them. “You think I am a little girl, Monsieur Breaux?”
By the time she asked the question, she stood inches away from him. He leaned toward her as if to study her a moment, then crossed his arms over his chest. A broad grin split his handsome face, and he broke out into laughter.
Laughter.
Cleo felt the heat flood her face. How dare he laugh at her? If she hadn’t been brought up to be a lady, she would certainly wipe the smile off his face with a choice word or two. Instead, she merely stood her ground and endured the humiliation until the Breaux fellow finally tired of his fun.
“Are you quite finished?” she asked as properly as she could.
The Breaux fellow’s face sobered, but traces of the grin remained. “I suppose I am.”
“Then may I ask you a question?”
He looked stunned. “I suppose so.”
“What will you accomplish by telling my uncle you found me out here?”
“Accomplish?” The Acadian seemed to consider the question a moment. “I don’t rightly know. You got the answer to that, eh?”
“Then don’t tell him.” She made an attempt to smile. “I have such plans, and all you will do is ruin them.”
“Well, of all the. . .” He shook his head. “You mean to try and tell me that even though you are in the wrong, I’m the one who’ll cause trouble by telling the truth? Little girl, you are something. Did you know that?” With those words, he turned and stormed away, crossing the distance to the cabin’s front porch with angry steps that raised little clouds of dust on the dry ground.
“I was just trying to figure out if they’d hired a teacher,” she called. “And you can believe that or not.”
“Why would you care about a teacher?” he asked without breaking his stride or looking her way. “You might be little bitty, but I know you’re past school age.” He glanced over his shoulder as he stomped up the porch steps. “At least I think you are, but then now that I—”
His leg disappeared into the porch step up to his knee. Catching the rail, he narrowly missed falling forward onto the porch. The big man leaned precariously against the rail, unable to lift his leg out of the crumbled wood that held it imprisoned.
“Are you all right?” Cleo picked up her skirts and raced toward the struggling man, climbing past him to stand on the porch. She offered her outstretched hand. “Here. Let me help.”
Gratitude was not written on his face as he looked up at her. “What in the world can a little thing like you do to help
me, eh?”
“You never can tell.” She tried not to laugh at the bits of rotten wood and dead leaves decorating his dark curls. “Uncle Joe says I’m stronger than I look. I’ll pull, and you try to lift your foot over those boards.”
She grasped his hand and tugged. A moment later, he caught his balance. Unfortunately, she lost hers, tangled her feet in her skirts, and landed with a thud on her posterior.
The Breaux fellow completed his climb out of the rotten stairs, then pulled himself up on the porch beside her. He shook his head, and leaves and wood chips fell like the snowflakes in Tante Flo’s snow globe all around him, some decorating the hem of her skirt.
For a moment she thought he might see some humor in the situation. The wind kicked up, sending another shower of debris her way. She offered a smile in anticipation of the return of his good humor.
Return? When did she actually see any of it? A glance up at the frown on his face told her it would not be today.
What a shame that such a handsome man had such a sour disposition.
The object of her thoughts lumbered to his feet and reached for her hand, practically sending her airborne as he pulled her to a standing position. To his credit, he held her steady until she could regain her footing.
“Get on home now,” he said as he released his grip.
Cleo hesitated a moment before pressing past him to carefully make her way across the rickety porch. Head held high, she stepped onto solid ground and walked away from the most irritating man she’d ever met.
Five
You go tell your uncle what you’ve been up to, little girl, or I will,” Theo called after her. “Hurry on now, or I just might get there before you. You wouldn’t want that, now would you, eh?”
Clothilde Trahan just kept on walking at the same leisurely pace, back straight and head up like she was counting the clouds. If he hadn’t seen the high color in her cheeks as she walked away, he would have thought she was out for a Sunday stroll.
Despite the fact she now wore sawdust on her skirt and pine needles in her hair, she was a lady, that one, and according to his mama, raised up to be a godly woman by good people. His only memories of Clothilde Trahan were as a quiet girl forever carrying a book under her arm or hiding in some remote corner at church picnics reading while everyone else went about their foolishness. He had to admit he hadn’t expected back then that she’d grow up to be quite so pretty.
Or spunky.
What was it about the Trahan girl that set his teeth on edge and his heart pumping all at the same time? Joe and his wife were the salt of the earth, and he knew they’d loved and raised that girl like she was their own.
If she’d turned out anything like her Tante Flo, she would make somebody a fine wife someday—once she let go of that nasty habit of sticking her pretty nose where it didn’t belong.
Maybe she ought to go back to carrying a book around. At least then she’d have a place to stick her nose where it wouldn’t get her into trouble.
He watched her disappear into the thicket and gave passing thought to whether she actually went home or stood there spying. From the look on her face when he told her he’d go to Joe, she probably hightailed it back to the house to head him off.
Scared to death, she most likely intended to give her uncle her side of the story before Theo could tell him otherwise. A fat lot of good that would do. The truth of the situation spoke for itself.
A twinge of guilt hit him hard. He shouldn’t have been so rough with her. No, he decided. Served her right. A body ought not hide out like a common criminal and watch people. What in the world was she thinking?
Theo pondered on that a moment. She did have the book learning, and she knew more words than just about anybody he’d ever spoken with—and he’d talked to some really smart people in his day.
Her Tante Flo worked as a teacher way back, so the feisty gal probably got her hankering for it through her kinfolk. Yes, he could see her as a schoolteacher, at least until the little bitty thing ran across a big old bayou boy who didn’t want to learn.
That last thought gave him pause. She already has, you big fool, and she did just fine.
Theo went back to work, taking his aggravation out on the porch steps. In short order, the rotten boards were gone, replaced by salvaged wood from the pile behind the cabin. If only he could pound away his irritation—and his thoughts of Clothilde Trahan—as easily.
❧
The following morning, Theo arrived on Joe’s doorstep to discuss his ideas for the renovations. Flo welcomed him warmly. In short order, she’d hustled him into the kitchen to offer him a plate of eggs, biscuits, and bacon, which he tried and failed to turn down.
“A man’s got to eat well if he’s going to work well,” Flo said.
“Well, I can’t find an argument for that,” he replied.
Joe seconded his statement with a wave of his napkin, then bowed his head to offer a blessing over the food. Fork in hand, Theo added his amen to Joe’s and Flo’s, then reached for the Tabasco sauce and doused everything on his plate. Satisfied he’d upped the temperature with his favorite pepper sauce, he stabbed at the bright yellow eggs and looked beyond the kitchen to the empty parlor.
Funny, here he sat at a family breakfast, and Joe’s niece was nowhere to be found. He chewed on the thought—and the fiery eggs. Both burned as they went down, but only the eggs caused him to shed a tear.
Must be prettying herself up or sleeping late. No, she’s probably hiding somewhere, spying.
He finished the meal and sipped good strong chicory coffee at the big round kitchen table while Flo cleared the table and then made herself scarce.
“Let’s get down to business.” Joe fetched a thick file off the sideboard and began to spread papers out on the table. “Tell me what you’ve decided we need to do.”
Theo explained his ideas, all the while watching for Clothilde. He finally left, wondering where in the world the irritating woman could be.
The next morning and the one after that passed in similar fashion until the habit of starting the day with Joe and his wife fell into a routine. Theo arrived early, discussed the previous day’s progress with Joe, and partook of the best coffee and eggs outside of the ones he had at his mama’s house. Never had he eaten so well or sat so long at one spell.
Each time when he left, he wondered where Clothilde Trahan could be. He also promised himself each night that tomorrow he’d go straight to the building site and forgo the lollygagging at Joe’s table.
Funny how he’d forget his promise every single morning. Funnier still how he figured each day would be the one when Clothilde Trahan finally stopped hiding from him.
❧
Nearly two weeks had passed, and Cleo was getting tired of missing breakfast. She stood in the henhouse with the basket hanging from her elbow. Good thing the hens were laying well.
Surely the Breaux fellow would end this annoying habit of showing up at Tante Flo’s table in time to eat a half-dozen eggs and drink a gallon of coffee before finally leaving. How he could hold so much food and still maintain a lean frame baffled her further.
Must be all that work he did out at the cabin.
Still, why one man sat so long at a breakfast table was beyond her understanding. Uncle Joe did, of course, but he was old—well nigh to forty. One might expect old folks to sit and sip their coffee as if they had nothing better to do all day.
Her thoughts returned to Theophile Breaux. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t informed Uncle Joe about the incident at the cabin. If he knew, Uncle Joe hadn’t let on, and he certainly hadn’t told Tante Flo. Perhaps the rogue had no intention of telling on her after all.
Well, wouldn’t that be an answer to prayer?
Cleo patted her apron pocket where the letter she had written the night before lay hidden. Writing to Uncle Joe’s friend at the teachers’ college in New Orleans had been a risk.
She thought long and hard before resorting to the drastic move of pl
eading her case to a man whom she barely knew. Surely he would see her side of things when he read her letter. A man fit to run a teachers’ college would obviously recognize a qualified teacher when he read a letter from one. If he wouldn’t let her into the college, maybe he would recommend her to Uncle Joe as capable of teaching the children of Latagnier.
The sound of voices across the yard caught her attention. She watched Theophile Breaux emerge from the shadows and take the front porch steps two at a time. Uncle Joe followed him out onto the porch, shouted a good-bye, and then disappeared back inside.
From experience, she knew her uncle would return to the kitchen table to work on his figuring a bit more, then take the big folder over to the church to show the reverend. After all, it was Friday.
Time to implement the plan she’d been working on all week. Patience was not her strong suit, but then the Lord must have known when He made her that she’d have trouble with waiting Why He chose to give her that peculiarity was something she planned to ask when she met Him someday. In the meantime, she prayed much and failed some.
This week, however, she’d managed to stick to her plan and keep her peace while she ticked off the days on the calendar. Around about Wednesday afternoon, she hadn’t thought Friday would ever come, but it had.
And somehow she’d made it through the week.
Cleo plucked the last egg from the straw and settled it atop the basket. With care, she made her way out of the henhouse and up the back steps to the kitchen.
Uncle Joe sat at the table, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose and the ledger before him just as she expected. He looked up from his scribbling when the door closed.
“You been working hard this morning, cher?” he asked before returning his attention to his figures.
She slipped behind him to leave the egg basket on the sideboard. “Yes, sir.”
He stopped writing and began tapping the tabletop with his fingers. A sure sign something was on his mind. “Seems like all that work would make a body hungry.”
Cleo cringed. Enduring scrutiny from Uncle Joe hadn’t been part of her expectations. “I suppose.”
Bayou Beginnings Page 3
