The Cajun Cowboy Read online

  Home on the range . . .

  Two days later, Charmaine was tooling along scenic Highway 90, about to hit Interstate 10. She leaned back in the leather seat of Tante Lulu’s classic blue T-bird convertible, singing “Knock, Knock, Knock” along with Joel Sonnier on the radio.

  The raucous tune related the woes of a guy who’d landed in the doghouse again. That was Charmaine. She was in the doghouse of life, so to speak, but she wasn’t going to let that get her down. No way! She was a survivor. Woof, woof!

  She’d given her much prized BMW to Luc to sell, hopefully for twenty thousand dollars, which he would use to negotiate a deal with Bucks ’r Us. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that Bobby Doucet—the slimeball—would settle for that amount, but Luc planned to negotiate and threaten him into a plan that would stop her interest clock from ticking away and allow her to pay off her loan in a reasonable period of time without any legs being broken or lives lost.

  She should have sold the BMW right at the beginning, when she’d first needed the money to cover the stock loss. Or she should have gone to a regular bank and mortgaged her house. But she’d expected to receive a large check from a convention bureau for an event at which she and all her employees had worked. Unfortunately, the convention bureau promoters skipped town without paying any bills. After that, everything went downhill fast. The bayou region was a gossip mill, and Charmaine’s infernal pride had gotten in the way. She hadn’t wanted anyone to be able to say, “That Charmaine! Guess what dumb thing the bimbo did now.”

  Well, that was water over the dam now. Luc had advised her to leave it all in his hands, and in the meantime to stay out of sight for several weeks. So, she had put responsibility for her two beauty shops in her managers’ hands with orders to contact her, via Luc, only in the direst emergency. Then she had hightailed it out of Houma, heading for the Triple L Ranch. Not that Rusty had invited her, or knew that she was coming. Their last meeting had ended on a slightly sour note. But she didn’t need an invitation. She owned half the ranch, after all. That matter had been placed in Luc’s expert legal hands, as well. He also was checking on the status of her marriage, or nonmarriage, to Rusty. If I’m not careful, the bill from my lawyer will exceed the bill from my loan shark, she joked to herself.

  Charmaine planned a short visit, which was not evident in her overflowing vehicle. The hard top was on the convertible, it being November and the temperature in the low sixties, but still she had managed to pack the other bucket seat, the back storage area and the trunk of the little coupe with everything from designer jeans to blow-dryer to vast amounts of fresh foods, the latter pushed on her by Tante Lulu, whose philosophy was “always be prepared.” In other words, overcook, overpack, overclean, overshop, and overdress.

  She slowed down eventually as she entered Calcasieu Parish, which was in the southwestern portion of the state. Soon there would be a turnoff for the vacherie, Cajun French for cattle ranch.

  Lots of people thought Louisiana was nothing but a semitropical network of bayous and marshes, but prairie grasslands formed a large portion of the southwestern sector. It wasn’t one single prairie like parts of Texas, but rather a series of prairies separated by forests and large streams. The largest of these prairies had such colorful names as Faquetique, Mamou, Calcasieu, Sabine, Vermilion, Mermentau, Plaquemine, Opelousas, and Grand.

  Even more surprising to many people were the ranches in Louisiana. They’d heard about Texas cowboys, but not about Louisiana cowboys. Little did they know that southwest Louisiana had been known as the “Meadowlands of America” in the 1800s. Some even said that the West had begun there. In fact, the folklorist Alan Lomax suggested that the popular cowboy yell “Hippy Ti Yo!” derived from the Cajun French expression and song, “Hip et Taïaut.”

  Charmaine, like many of the Pelican State’s natives, loved Louisiana because of its colorful diversity.

  Overall, Charmaine was in a surprisingly good mood for the first time in weeks. The worst wasn’t over, but she was hopeful that things would get better soon.

  Her good mood came crashing down as she drove slowly along the single lane leading to the ranch house. The Triple L was relatively small, only a thousand acres with more than five hundred head of Black Angus cattle, and it had never boasted a big Dynasty-style mansion or anything remotely like that, but it had been well kept and profitable. What happened? Tears misted her eyes as she got out of her car and gazed about her. The one-story, rambling clapboard house with its wide front and back porches had lost its whitewash years ago. Not a single flower or decorative plant offset the starkness of the setting, except for wisteria vines and bougainvillea bushes, which had gone wild, and a tupelo tree near the front porch and several oaks in the back near a small bayou about a hundred yards from the house. A fenced-in vegetable garden beside the house had gone to seed, overgrown with weeds. The barn door hung on one hinge. Corral fences were broken here and there. Pieces of rusted machinery lay about like a junkyard. Several roosters—escapees from a dilapidated chicken coop—pecked at the hard dirt of the front yard searching for feed. The Triple L was a sad, neglected mirror of its old self. What happened?

  “Well, well, well! Looks like Rusty’s little filly done come home,” she heard a crotchety voice say behind her. She turned to see Clarence Guidry, the longtime Triple L foreman, who spat out a wad of tobacco and wiped his mouth with a bandanna before reaching out a hand to her in welcome. Charmaine engulfed the old man in a hug. She would have thought Clarence retired a long time ago, being in his late sixties. The last time she’d seen Clarence was at the funeral home after Charlie Lanier’s death.

  “I’m not Rusty’s filly, and he sure as hell isn’t my stallion.”

  “He usta be.”

  “Not anymore. I’m only here for a visit,” she said, ruffling his gray hair.

  “Iffen you say so,” he remarked with a grin.

  “What happened here?” She indicated with a sweep of her hand the ranch’s deplorable condition.

  “Thass not fer me to say.”

  “Where’s Rusty?”

  “He and a couple of the hands ’re out mendin’ fences. ’Spect they’ll be gone most of the afternoon.”

  “I’ll get moved in then.” Noticing that he was grinning again, she added, “For my visit.”

  “Whatever you say, girlie. I’m goin’ inta town. Gotta go ta the feed store and buy some supplies. Might stop off fer a beer or two. Prob’ly won’t see you till tomorrow.”

  She nodded.

  “Need some help unloadin’ that little bug?” he asked, glancing at the T-bird.

  “No, thanks. I’ll just bring in a little at a time, as I need it.”

  “It’s good to see you here,” he said just before he hopped into a beat-up pickup truck that she’d thought was part of the yard junk. As he bent to ease himself into the driver’s seat, she noticed two clear marks in the back pockets of his jeans—a circular one outlining his can of loose-cut tobacco and a rectangular one outlining his much-played harmonica. “Both you and Rusty,” he emphasized. “Yer both a welcome sight.” With those words, he revved up the engine, which took some loud gunning of the gas pedal and shaking of the metal frame, before he took off with a wave out the window.

  Charmaine went inside and found conditions just as bad there. A thick layer of dust covered everything. The large great room with its stone fireplace and handcrafted folk furniture made of bent twigs, deer antlers and steer skins. The rustic dining alcove off the kitchen with its built-in corner cupboard and a pedestal table and benches that could seat twenty, easily. The pantry that was half-filled with canned goods, many of which probably had exceeded their expiration dates. The foggy windows that hadn’t been cleaned in years.

  The only reasonably clean rooms were one of the three bedrooms, the single bathroom, and the kitchen . . . the key word being “reasonably” since soiled dishes were piled in the kitchen sink, wet towels lay on the bathroom floor, and the bed remained unmade with dirty
clothes making a trail bespeaking a bone-weary cowboy falling dead on his feet to the mattress at night.

  Well, something would have to be done if Charmaine was going to stay there for one day, let alone several weeks. Rusty might be able to live this way, but she couldn’t. Besides, Charmaine was a hard worker, trained from an early age to cook and clean and keep busy during the daylight hours when her mother slept. If she hadn’t taken care of herself, no one else would have.

  First, she gathered up the bed linens and blankets from two bedrooms and all the dirty towels. She took them to the laundry room off the pantry and started her first load of wash. Then she brought in the perishable groceries that Tante Lulu had sent, along with some she had emptied out of her own fridge—milk, orange juice, fresh vegetables, some meats, even some crawfish from a neighbor. Charmaine set the dishes and pots and pans to soaking in scalding hot, sudsy water in the big enamel sink, then left two loaves of frozen bread dough out to rise on the counter in greased loaf pans before preparing a quick crawfish étouffée. She wasn’t attempting to please Rusty. It was one of her favorites. At least that’s what she told herself. She made enough for a half dozen people, in case some of the ranch hands would be eating there, too. Heck, maybe Rusty wouldn’t even eat with her. She shrugged. In that case, she would be eating the Cajun dish for days.

  By then, the first load of laundry was done. She put that in the dryer and started on a second load. The sweet scent of detergent filled the air, giving her an odd satisfaction. Some folks probably felt like this when they hung their clothes out to dry on the line.

  After that she scoured the bathroom sink, toilet, and tub, even the tub surround and floor tiles. The bedrooms got a cursory whisk of a dust cloth on heavy old furniture dark with age. She used a dry mop to remove the curly dirt, or dust balls, under the beds. She would do a more thorough cleaning tomorrow.

  Charlie’s bedroom door was closed, and she didn’t bother to open it. The bedroom Rusty had been using was the one he had used as a boy when visiting his father, as evidenced by a few rodeo posters on the cypress plank walls and Zane Grey novels and a half-deflated football in a bookcase. More recent additions were the myriad animal medicine books, veterinary and ranching magazines, and what appeared to be a large, leather doctor’s bag. Besides that, the room contained a single bed against one wall, a large dresser, and a bedside table. She’d been to the ranch a number of times alone, and she had slept in that bed with Rusty on the one occasion when they’d visited his father together. Somehow it hadn’t seemed so small then.

  Quickly, she pushed those memories aside.

  By 6:00 P.M., the kitchen sparkled from her cleaning efforts. The smaller wood table in the kitchen had six chairs; so she’d set place settings for six with the old Fiesta dinnerware and bone-handled cutlery. The wonderful smells of her crawfish casserole and baking bread and a frozen apple pie of Tante Lulu’s filled the air.

  She was putting the finishing touches on the linoleum floor with an old rag mop when one her favorite songs came on the local Golden Oldies rock station on the radio sitting on the windowsill. While the music blared out, Charmaine danced with her mop. Every time the Beatles sang, “Well, shake it up, baby,” Charmaine shimmied around, up and down her mop handle; she wasn’t the daughter of a stripper for nothing. Every time the Beatles called out, “Twist and Shout,” she did that, too, with her own sexy version of that dance move.

  Why she would be in such a good mood, she had no idea. Perhaps a day of hard work with visible effects. Perhaps relief that her money problems were at least in someone else’s hands. Perhaps just because it was a good song.

  That’s when she heard a choking sound behind her and a muttered, “Lord have mercy!”

  She came to a screeching halt, midtwist, and turned to see Rusty standing in the archway, staring at her as if she were an alien landed in his kitchen. He wore dusty Wrangler jeans, a black Bite Me Bayou Bait Co. T-shirt, boots, and a cowboy hat. His hands and arms and face were filthy. Days-old whiskers gave him an outlaw look.

  Flanking him on either side were a middle-aged black cowboy the size of a tupelo tree, similarly attired and covered with dust, who grinned at Rusty and remarked, “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” and on the other side a young man of about fifteen with auburn hair and freckles, also similarly attired and equally dirty, who just grinned.

  Aerosmith was singing one of their old songs now, “Sweet Emotion.” Ironic, really, because when she looked at Rusty, despite all their history, she was filled with such sweet emotion she could barely breathe.

  Rusty’s dark Cajun eyes were welcoming at first, before he scowled, taking in her cleaning efforts with ever-widening lids. Then he sniffed the air, gave her another sweeping head-to-toe scrutiny, and repeated his initial comment, “Lord have mercy!”

  Chapter 3

  Dirty dancing, for sure . . .

  Raoul felt as if he’d been sucker punched to the floor. At the same time, he felt light as a feather, floating up to the sky.

  Never in a million years had he expected to walk into the ranch house kitchen and see his ex-wife—no, his wife—in her bare feet, wearing a pair of cutoff jeans that showed off her butt to perfection, and a white, short-sleeved T-shirt with LET ME SHAG YOU emblazoned across the prettiest breasts this side of the Mason-Dixon line. Even worse—or better—Charmaine was pole-dancing . . . with a mop, for chrissake.

  And she looked good. Damned good! So good, in fact, that his teeth ached and his knees felt wobbly. Before he did something foolish, like jump her bones, or say, “Welcome home, baby,” he snarled, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She blinked at him, then raised her chin. “I’m here to visit. On my lawyer’s advice.”

  Don’t you dare blink those puppy-dog eyes at me, Charmaine. I am immune. “Luc told you to come here?”

  She nodded. And hitched one hip, leaning against her mop.

  I am not ogling her hips. Not, not, not! I am a man with a mission. I am immune. “For how long?” he finally managed to inquire.

  “A couple of weeks.”

  He groaned. He couldn’t help himself. Immunity only lasts so long.

  “Are y’all hungry?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “For what?” he blurted out. Did I really say that?

  “You betcha,” Linc and Jimmy—the traitors—said on either side of him.

  She means food.

  I knew that.

  “No,” he said, though his stomach was grumbling at the succulent smells that filled the kitchen. Is that crawfish étouffée I smell? My favorite. What a coincidence! Hah! I better be on guard. Charmaine is pulling out all the stops. For what purpose? Hmmm.

  Charmaine smiled.

  He hated it when she smiled. Well, he hated how it made him feel.

  She arched an eyebrow at the two men flanking him.

  He realized how rude he was being, not introducing them.

  “Charmaine, this is Abel Lincoln, better known as Linc.” He jerked his head to the black cowboy on his right. Linc had been a fellow inmate of Raoul’s who had become a good friend. Raoul was tall at six-foot-three; Linc had a good three inches on him.

  “Linc is a musician, Charmaine. You should hear his music sometime,” Raoul said.

  “Really? I look forward to it.”

  He told Linc, “Charmaine loves all kind of music . . . as you probably noticed with her mop dancing routine.”

  Charmaine sliced him with a glower.

  Then Raoul motioned with his head to his other side. “And this is Jimmy O’Brien. He’s helping out on the ranch till he goes back to school.” Jimmy was a fifteen-year-old high school dropout, but he would get his high school diploma, come hell or high water, if Raoul had anything to do with it. Actually, he wasn’t so much a drop-out as a kick-out. He wasn’t a bad kid, but he’d been hanging with a bad crowd and had been involved in a serious incident of vandalism resulting in thousands of dollars in fines and restitution. His f
ather, a widower at his wit’s end, had appealed to his good friend Clarence for help. As a result, Jimmy was working about five hours a day at the ranch to help pay off his fines and completing correspondence courses the rest of the time to keep up to date with his schoolwork. He hoped to return to his father’s home in January at the beginning of a new semester, or next summer at the latest.

  “Jimmy is our mathematician cowboy,” Raoul told Charmaine. “I swear he’s a regular Bill Gates when it comes to numbers.”

  Jimmy appeared about to protest, then shut his mouth with a click.

  Raoul looked at Charmaine, sighed, and announced to the two guys, “And this is Charmaine.” His heart twisted as he added, “My wife.”

  “Wife?” Linc exclaimed. “I thought you were divorced.”

  So did I. “So did I.”

  “You lucky dog!” Jimmy muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for him to hear.

  I don’t know about lucky, but I am a dog, for sure, to be looking at her and thinking what I’m thinking.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Charmaine flashed a big ol’ beauty pageant smile at Linc and Jimmy, which wouldn’t gain her any crowns but probably their lifelong devotion. Charmaine always did have the smile-thing down pat. In fact, she had a repertoire of smiles for different occasions. Amazing, the things he still remembered about her. Especially the smiles she’d reserved just for him on special occasions.

  “My pleasure,” Linc said with a courtly bow.

  Yep, lifelong devotion.

  “Likewise, ma’am,” Jimmy said.

  Raoul got a perverted satisfaction at Charmaine’s face flushing up over being referred to as “ma’am.” Raoul was old enough to know that women had a thing about age, and “ma’am” was definitely an age-defining word. For a former beauty queen, he imagined it would be even more offensive.

  “Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes if y’all want to wash up first.”