by Lynn Shurr
Bijou gave her a nudge toward the stairs. Heavy-footed, they went up to the second floor together. The intruder looked into both rooms with screaming babies. Deanie tried to climb over the rails of his crib, a trick he had mastered earlier in the week. Tommy lay on his back, kicking and very red in the face. Pushing Corazon into the room with the younger child, Bijou ordered the nursemaid to pack a diaper bag for the trip.
“Please, do not hurt Rojito. He is a good baby, but with a temper if Dino teases too much.”
“Rojito, cute. I wouldn’t hurt one red curl on his head. He’s my own flesh and blood even if he does look like his mama. Not much Billodeaux showing in him. Besides, you know what kind of cash a healthy white baby like this will bring?” Bijou wrinkled his nose. “And give him a diaper change before we go. He might not get another one until I’m across the Rio Grande.”
Bijou’s eyes scanned the room. “Good, no phones. What’s this thing?”
“For to hear the baby when I’m downstairs.”
“You just stay here, then. I’m going to pay a visit to the little mother, let her know my terms for getting this kid back.”
“Please, senor, she is sick. Leave her alone.”
“I feel so sorry for that baby-stealin’ bitch, me, I probably won’t bother to rape her. Don’t care for pregnant women, you see. And you, you’re plain too ugly. Got a better senorita down south. Don’t you leave this room, you hear.”
Bijou expected the master suite to be locked. It wasn’t. He flung the door back hard just in case little Miss Nell hid there with an upraised poker or a handgun. She was small but feisty, he recalled. She certainly led Joe Dean around by the nose.
Her bed was empty. He could see no one in the bath through the open door. The gallery appeared to be unoccupied. For the first time, Bijou noticed the blue truck. In too much of a hurry to be observant, he’d driven up the old cane field road, across an open lot and then walked along the bayou to get to the house. Joe Dean wouldn’t drive an old heap like that. Who? Returning to the hall, he caught Corazon moving away from Deanie’s now locked bedroom.
“What did I tell you? Stay in the baby’s room! Comprende?”
“No comprende. Sorry, senor. I do not want the other child to get out and fall down the stairs.”
“Ain’t you the good little nursemaid? Maybe I need to take you along. You’re probably an illegal anyways. Want to go back to old Mexico, huh? Give me the bag. You take the baby and step out here on the balcony. Go, go, go, andale!” He gave Corazon another prick with the tip of the hunting knife. Her neck ran red with small rivulets settling in the creases.
Comforted by his nurse’s cushiony chest and a clean diaper, Tommy peeped over her shoulder at his father. The man did not smile and his voice was rough and deep. Tommy buried his big brown eyes in Corazon’s shoulder as if that would make the scary man go away. He peeped again. Still there. He began to wail.
“Is Joe Dean losing his taste for fancy rigs, or does that truck belong to someone else?” Bijou crouched closed behind Corazon using her and the baby as a shield.
I may be fat and ugly, but I got good eyes, Corazon thought. Bueno. Knox had heard her plea for help over the monitor and gotten into position. A rifle is missing from his gun rack and an odd, bumpy shadow is being cast by the afternoon sun behind the truck. I need to get out of the way.
Bijou prodded her again with the knife. “Whose truck? Answer me!”
“It belongs to the handyman. He is very old and has a bad leg. He can’t hurt you.” God forgives lies told to save the innocent, surely. Then, cradling Tommy, she dropped to the floor boards. A bullet took a chunk from the slick white railing of the gallery, surged on and lodged in the brick of the house.
Bijou crouched beside the maid. “Old and lame, fuck! Give me the kid.”
Corazon held Tommy tightly to her chest as Bijou pulled at the crossed corduroy straps of the baby’s overalls. He held his knife up to slash at the maid’s arm and raised his head slightly above the railing with the motion. A second bullet carved a groove across his forehead and threw a curtain of blood over his eyes.
“Shit!” He released Tommy and wiped his face with the sleeve of his free arm.
Corazon turtled backward until she reached the side of the balcony. She raised her bulk up to the railing, pushed her hips on to the edge and murmuring, “Madre de Dios, hear my prayer,” let her weight carry her and the baby backward over the edge. They landed in a clump of thick, glossy gardenias professionally planted in a bed with three feet of mulch. Tommy, still enfolded on Corazon’s bosom, seemed to enjoy the ride. He ceased crying and raised his head to look around. His small hand reached out for the clump of leaves crowning his nursemaid’s head, then drew back as a squad car came screaming down the drive. He burrowed into the pillowy chest again.
Now they come, thought Corazon, the wind and heaven knew what else knocked out of her. Forgive me, Holy Mother, for not being grateful for my fat behind. She closed her eyes.
On the balcony, Bijou stayed low and ran to the opposite side of the porch. If a fat old maid could do it, so could he. Bijou jumped feet first into a matching clump of gardenias and mulch. He bent his knees as he hit and rolled to one side, his knife carving a deep hole in the loose dirt. Hell, this was like the good times when he did bull riding and Joe Dean was a pissant high school wannabe pro quarterback. He gained his feet and took off toward the bayou path.
Behind the fugitive, the sheriff, two patrolmen and Joe Dean Billodeaux unloaded from the squad car. They gave chase with first the sheriff wheezing to a halt, then the first and second patrolmen as they came up to L.B.’s pasture. The stud horse was gone. Joe spotted a flash of red going into the trees.
He pursued, his feet slipping in the duff. What he would give for a good pair of cleats instead of these fancy Italian loafers covered with gunk right now. Millions. He whistled shrilly hoping to get the animal to pull up short. L.B. did jerk to a stop long enough for Joe to catch at his cousin’s leg. Bijou struck downward with his knife catching Joe in the right shoulder. L.B. reared and bolted leaving the knife buried in the wound. Joe kept running. He ran until he collapsed in the glade where he once made love to Nell. Nell. The moss soaked up his blood.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“I have to say, Al, wearing Joe Dean Billodeaux’s number on their helmets didn’t bring the New Orleans Sinners the luck they needed. The team seems leaderless without him. Green Bay’s defense fully contained Sinners’ reserve quarterback, Jim Jennings, who had only one win in the last three games of the season. The Sinners made the playoffs on Joe Dean’s legacy. Of course, this dome team didn’t care for the Wisconsin weather either, driving snow and temperatures in the low thirties. Made that football as hard as a rock and slippery, too.”
“The weather was a factor, but if Joe Dean had been here in more than spirit, the Sinners might have had a chance for redemption, Hank.”
The sports commentators chuckled. “What a guy, that Joe Dean. The women always thought so, but you have to give credit to a man who delivers his own twin daughters, then chases his adopted son’s would-be kidnapper and goes down with a knife in his shoulder. Sounds like one of my wife’s romance novels—not that I ever read one.”
“Heaven forbid, Al. I think Joe Dean’s story is more action/adventure. They should put him in the Hall of Fame now for best off-field performance. Here’s Rita Fortunado with wide receiver, Connor Riley, who carried the ball for the Sinner’s only touchdown in today’s game.”
“Connor,” said Rita, standing a little too closely. “Did the loss of Joe Dean Billodeaux cost your team another Super Bowl?”
“Those of us who are married, especially the ones with children, understand what Joe Dean had to do—protect his family.” Connor reached out an arm and pulled Stevie next to him from her position slightly off camera.
“Family, then football. The team did their best without him. But Rita, you know, there’s always next year.”
“Ma
is, yeah!” Joe Dean shouted from his seat on the sofa beside Nell. He pumped his left arm. “Next year, baby, once I get this shoulder loosened up again. Still, I think I could have helped if Coach had let me go along to Green Bay and sit on the bench.”
“Sure and crack that wound open again in the cold with you flailing your arm around every time you got excited? I had to sit on your hand to keep you still in this nice warm game room. Hush, now. You’ll wake the girls.” Nell gave him the warmest, most loving smile he’d ever seen on any woman in or out of bed.
Joe Dean looked at his daughters sound asleep in their baby carriers, their small faces now pink and plump after a long hospital stay. Making fish faces against the glass, Deanie played under the coffee table. Tommy dozed just below Corazon’s neck brace as the maid sat in the best recliner with her feet up.
Nadine Billodeaux scraped the last of the chili-cheese dip into the bowl sitting between her husband and Knox Polk. Knox loaded a chip with dip and fed Corazon. Then he offered her the bent straw stuck into a chilled can of diet ginger ale.
“Here you go, Brave Heart.”
Corazon raised her newly plucked eyebrows and gave him a smile that showed off her waxed upper lip and fine, white teeth. Nell, bored during her recovery and getting plenty of childcare help from the Billodeaux women, had given her a gratefully received makeover. With her brave heart, she had survived the leg waxing, too.
“You know, this brace is helping me lose weight, I think,” the maid remarked with a sidelong glance at Knox.
“Women should have a little padding. You might have broken your neck, not just sprained it if you were thinner,” Knox said.
“Knox,” she said. “You are my hero. In America, any wish can come true.”
“That means trouble, Knox. When a woman tells you that, she expects you to do big things,” Joe Dean answered. “Speaking of which, I think I have a winning team here. I want to give you and Corazon these rings for all you did to protect my family.”
He twisted off his two Super Bowl rings leaving only his wide wedding band behind on his fingers. He tossed the one with the S picked out in rubies to Knox and handed the second one glittery with diamonds to Corazon.
“No, no, we cannot take them, Mr. Joe,” Corazon protested, though her sprained back wasn’t allowing her to get up and hand the ring back.
“No, sir. I can’t accept a gift like this,” Knox Polk agreed.
“Keep them. I plan on getting another one next year.” Joe stretched out, caught Deanie between his legs and drew him from under the coffee table. “Go get the Nerf football, son. Daddy needs to practice his left arm throws. You can receive. Get the ball. There you go.”
Nell put hats on the girls and pulled their pink, crocheted blankets up around their necks in preparation for giving them some fresh air. She raised Tommy off of Corazon’s chest.
“You must be numb by now,” she teased the woman.
“It is a good hurt, señora,” Corazon answered.
When all the children were bundled and Corazon helped to a rocker on the porch, the Billodeaux family gathered to watch another sort of game. In a corner of the training ring closest to the house, Fatima craned her neck over the fence to assess the cause of all the commotion. A red colt with a long white blaze on his dished Arabian face stayed tucked to her side. L.B. stood nearby showing his stuff.
Frank Billodeaux directed Tommy’s eyes toward the foal. “See Drummer Boy, Tommy? He come on Christmas Eve wit’ lots less fuss den your baby sisters. He be your horse one day.”
“Yep, L.B. produces a fine product. Good thing he found his way home safe after Bijou ditched him for a truck. Too bad I didn’t kill that bastard of a kidnapper when I had the chance. He’s probably hiding in Mexico again,” Knox remarked as he leaned against a pillar.
“He won’t bother us again, I’m sure,” Nell said. “Not with all the great people we have on the ranch protecting us.”
Out on the grassy part of the lawn, Joe threw a wobbly left-handed pass high in the air with the spongy ball. “Go long, Deanie, go long!”
Arms up, the dark-haired little boy scrambled across the grass. The ball hit him in the chest and bounced to the ground. Deanie jumped on the ball, then held it up and gave it a spike. The gallery of fans applauded. Joe patted his son’s rear and gave him a high five.
“Next one is a short shovel pass, Deanie. Stand right there and get ready.”
The child held out his hands. Joe Dean Billodeaux, star quarterback of the Sinners, paused to look at his family before making the play. Less than two years ago, he thought he had everything a man could want, but now he had even more than he had wished.
ABOUT AUTHOR LYNN SHURR
Once a librarian, now a writer of romance, Lynn Shurr grew up in Pennsylvania Dutch country. She attended a state college and earned a very impractical B.A. in English Literature. Her first job out of school really was working as a cashier in a burger joint. Moving from one humble job to another, she traveled to North Carolina, then Germany, then California where she buckled down and studied for an M.A. in Librarianship.
New degree in hand, she found her first reference job in the Heart of Cajun Country, Lafayette, Louisiana. For her, the old saying, “Once you’ve tasted bayou water, you will always stay here” came true. She raised three children not far from the Bayou Teche and lives there still with her astronomer husband and two big-boned, orange cats named Jake and Elwood.
When not writing, Lynn likes to paint, to cheer for the New Orleans Saints and LSU Tigers, and take long road trips nearly anywhere. Her love of the bayou country, its history and customs, often shows in the background for her books.
You may contact Lynn at www.lynnshurr.com or visit her blog-lynnshurr.blogspot.com.
Table of Contents
Title page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
ABOUT AUTHOR LYNN SHURR