Shadows of Home: A Woman with Questions. A Man with Secrets. A Bayou without Mercy

by Deborah Epperson

  “He feels safe here.”

  “I know. We figured reporters would check all the hotels and motels for miles. Since this house is tucked away, the Boudreaux family would be harder to find here.” Royce massaged his arm. “If reporters show up, Jax can slip out the back and disappear into the Caddo.”

  “Nobody can find Jax in the Caddo if he doesn’t want to be found.” Elita leaned back against the dock railing. “I have a new plan for us.”

  Royce cocked his head. “A new plan for us?”

  “Yes, a three-step plan, and don’t get your hackles up before you hear it.” She smiled. “I think you’ll like it.”

  He hiked a brow, crossed his arms. “Okay, tell me.”

  “As I said, I’m not going back to college next year.”

  He started to protest, but she placed two fingers over his lips and shushed him. “Let me lay out my entire plan then you can pick it apart.”

  Royce lifted her hand from his lips. “Alright. What’s the first step in your plan?”

  “While you’re training Cliff to take over the production department of Sutton Oil, I’ll be helping Uncle Matt get his new business up and running.”

  “Did he ask you to stay?”

  “No, but since he insists I take a royalty, I feel the need to help him get started.”

  “You gave him your family’s land to build his warehouse on. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No, it’s not.” She turned her back to him, stared down at the water lilies floating around the pilings of the dock. “I feel bad I had the insane idea Uncle Matt could be raising marijuana. I should have trusted him.” She faced Royce. “Just like I should’ve trusted you.”

  “That’s all in the past.” His stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “What’s the second step?”

  “While we’re helping our families, we can apply to universities that offer both a medical and a pharmacy program.”

  “I’m guessing the third step of your new plan involves us being college roommates.”

  “Exactly. How does that sound to you?”

  “I’ve had college roommates before. It didn’t work out well.”

  Elita’s lips skimmed his mouth in a gentle, teasing kiss. “But I can offer you some special benefits no other roommate could.”

  Royce looked at the sky, rubbed his chin. “I see how having you as a roommate might be a benefit.”

  “Might?” Elita extended the knuckle of her middle finger, pulled back her fist. “You want another frog?”

  “No, thanks.” He rubbed the pink knot on his upper arm. “I’ll probably have a bruise.”

  She laughed. “Poor little rich boy. Want me to kiss it and make it better.”

  “That’s the least you can do.”

  “You gave me a few frogs in the arm when we were young, Buster.”

  “And now that we’re older, I have something better to give you.”

  Elita glanced at the bulge in his jeans. “I admit it’s better than a frog in the arm.”

  He grinned. “Just kiss my damn arm so I can give it to you.”

  “Eager beaver, aren’t you?” She kissed his arm. “Does it feel better now?”

  “It does, and now I can tell you my new plan for us.”

  “You have a new plan too?” She didn’t try to hide her surprise.

  “I do.” Royce dropped to one knee, pulled a small, black velvet box out of his jean pocket and opened it. “Miss Elita Pearl Dupree, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  She stared at the stunning ring. A dazzling emerald-cut diamond set in a halo of baguette and triangular sapphires in a platinum mounting.

  “I remembered you loved sapphires.” He stood. “Say something, Elita.”

  “I apologize for frogging your arm.”

  He chuckled. “Do you like the ring?”

  “It’s gorgeous.” She pulled it out of the box, examined it and handed it back to him. “I bet we could buy a new house for what you paid for that ring.”

  He pushed the ring back into its velvet perch. “I wanted something special, something unique because I plan to give out only one ring in my life, and that ring goes to my Caddo woman.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “How about it, Elita? Will you give me your hand in marriage?”

  She held out her left hand, splayed her fingers and fought back tears as Royce slipped the engagement ring on her finger.

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. “Let’s go dancing to celebrate.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I gave you my hand in marriage.” She ran her fingers slowly down his bare chest. “You’re going to have to negotiate for the rest of me.”

  An amused gleam lit his eyes as Royce stuffed the velvet box into his pocket. “I warn you, I’m a skilled negotiator.” He swooped her up in his arms.

  She squirmed, kicked her feet. “What the hell are you doing, Royce?”

  “I do my best negotiating in the bedroom.”

  Elita circled her arms around his neck, laid her head on his shoulder. This would be the first of a lifetime of pleasure-filled debates the future Mrs. Royce Sutton would be happy to lose.

  THE END

  About Caddo Lake

  Caddo Lake is a 25,000+ acre lake with a sprawling maze of bayous, sloughs, and channels that straddled the Texas-Louisiana line some twenty miles northwest of Shreveport. It lies partly in the Texas counties of Marion and Harrison, and partly in western Caddo Parish in Louisiana.

  Named after the Southeastern Native Americans called Caddoans, Caddo legend says the lake was formed by the 1811-1812 New Madrid earthquakes. Many geologists feel the lake was formed by flooding due to the “Great Raft,” a 100-mile log jam on the Red River in Louisiana.

  Oil derricks sprang up throughout the lake, around the turn of the 20th century. The world's first over water oil platform was completed in Caddo Lake in 1911. In the mid-20th century, an Army Ammunition Plant was built on Caddo Lake, resulting in more damage to the fragile ecosystem.

  Caddo Lake is an internationally protected wetland under the Ramsar Convention and includes one of the largest flooded cypress forests in the United States. In 1934, Texas established Caddo Lake State Park. Find more information at: http://tpwd.texas.gov/state-parks/caddo-lake

  Novel Excerpt: Breaking TWIG

  By: Deborah Epperson

  PROLOGUE

  I must have been about five the first time Grandpa Eli told me the story of the Pickers and the Picks. He was sitting in his rocking chair on the back porch of the modest plantation house he’d built twenty years earlier. My imaginary friend, Claudia, and I were having a tea party under the shade of the weeping willow. A clump of purple flowers plucked from the wisteria vine trailing along the back picket fence served as our grapes, while half-a-dozen emerald leaves pilfered from a hothouse geranium represented mint cookies.

  "Becky Leigh," he called. "Did I ever tell you the story of the Pickers and the Picks?"

  "No, sir." I headed for the porch. "What are Pickers, Grandpa?"

  "Pickers are mainly folks who are big on the outside, but small on the inside." He gave a push and the oak rocker resumed its familiar cadence. "Not necessarily tall and heavy big. Pickers are more like puffed up big."

  I climbed into his lap, nestled into the crook of his shoulder. "Like popcorn puffs up when you cook it?"

  "No, more like a sore that’s got infected and is puffed up with mucus and poisons."

  "That’s yucky."

  He laughed. "That’s a true fact, Miss Becky."

  "What do Pickers do?" I asked.

  "Pickers hunt for someone who looks like easy pickin’s."

  "Easy pickin’s? You mean like when Momma makes Papa and me pick dewberries along the railroad track instead of by Lost Mule Bog because she says it’s easy pickin’s along the tracks? But it’s not really. It’s just the bog is messier, and you know how she hates messes."

  Grandpa stopped r
ocking. "Are you going to be quiet and let me finish my story, youngun?"

  I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle. It was the funniest thing, my grandpa pretending to be mad at me. "Yes, sir. I’ll be quiet."

  The rocker started up again. "As I was saying, a Picker hunts for someone he thinks will be easy pickin’s. That’s usually someone smaller, younger, or weaker in some way. It can be someone whose only weakness is that he or she is a nice person."

  I tapped Grandpa’s shoulder. "How does a Picker change nice people into Picks?"

  "Well, he screams and hollers at them. He makes them do things they know they shouldn’t do. Champion Pickers are experts at bullyin’, intimidatin’, and dominatin’ other folks." The rocker stopped once more. "Do you understand anything I’m saying, Becky?"

  "I think so. Maybe. Will I be a Picker or a Pick when I grow up, Grandpa?"

  "Can’t say for sure. Let’s try an experiment." He helped me down and pointed to a line of ants marching across the porch floor. "Go stand by those ants."

  I did as I was told.

  "Now, Becky, I want you to stomp them ants as hard as you can."

  "Why should I kill the ants, Grandpa? They’re not hurting me."

  "Because you can, girl. Because you can."

  I began to stomp. I stomped the ants in the middle of the line, the ants in the back of the line, and all the ants at the head of the line. I stomped so hard my cat’s dish vibrated across the floor, tumbled over the edge, and landed in the azalea bushes that circled the back porch. I didn’t stop stomping until all the ants were either dead or beyond my reach.

  Grandpa Eli motioned for me to come back. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. "That’s what Pickers do, Becky. They hurt other living things just because they can." Pulling me closer, he asked, "How did stomping those ants make you feel?"

  I lowered my eyes. "Bad. I felt bad, but . . . ."

  "But what?"

  "But when I was stomping them I felt . . . ."

  "You felt strong?"

  I nodded, too ashamed to acknowledge my Picker-like feelings in words.

  "How do you think the ants felt?"

  "Terrible," I said. "And so will Pinecone when he sees his supper is gone."

  "Don’t you worry about that cat. He won’t starve. But that’s what happens when a Picker gets riled up. Lots of innocent folks get hurt too."

  "Does this mean I’m gonna be a Picker when I grow up?"

  "It’s all up to you, child. You don’t have to be a Picker or a Pick. You can choose to be nice to people and insist that they be nice to you."

  I climbed back into his lap. "And if they’re not nice to me?"

  "If you stand up to the Pickers in this world, they’ll leave you alone. Remember, they like easy pickin’s."

  "Have you ever been a Picker, Grandpa, or a Pick?"

  "Sure. At certain times in life, most people are either a Pick or Picker. It usually takes a lifetime for folks to figure out they don’t have to be either one."

  "Grandpa, do you think a Picker, a champion Picker that is, can ever change?"

  "Maybe. With the passage of time and a heap of prayers, I think anyone can change."

  I gave him a hug. "I think we should start praying for Momma right away."

  Grandpa Eli smiled. "I think you’re right, Becky Leigh."

  *****

  I did start praying. But after both my grandfather and my beloved Papa died, and after the only noticeable change in Momma—despite eight years of fervent prayers—was her new husband, I stopped. I let the tales of Pickers and Picks slip from my mind and forgot Grandpa Eli’s warnings on the perils of becoming easy pickin’s.

  Not until one day in November of ’63 did I recall the lessons of the porch. That was the morning Momma and her new husband, Frank, went to the Miller's house to watch President Kennedy’s funeral, and the time I got caught slipping into my new stepbrother’s room to borrow some paper. It was also the day a seventeen-year-old boy decided to teach a thirteen-year-old girl a lesson she wouldn’t forget. That was the day I knew for sure I was a Pick.

  *****

  Breaking TWIG has over 1,665+ Five-star ratings and reviews on Goodreads and Amazon. It is available on Amazon in ebook, paperback, and audiobook at: smarturl.it/40qm3v

  About the Author

  Deborah Epperson has a degree in biology and English and after working in the scientific field for twenty years, she turned her talents to writing fiction and nonfiction. Her nonfiction and poetry have been published in newspapers and magazines in Montana and nationally. A transplanted Texan, she likes to write stories and characters steeped in the lyrical traditions and mystical surroundings of the Deep South where she grew up.

  Deborah lives in the beautiful mountains of Montana with her family. When not working on her next novel or article, she enjoys doing pet therapy work with her golden retriever, and volunteering in animal rescue. Contact her at: shadowsofhome@gmail.com