The Cajun Cowboy

by Sandra Hill

  “I beg your pardon!” Charmaine said, frowning with confusion.

  Had the body builder been ingesting too many steroids or something? Because he sure was acting strange. How dare he take that tone with his wife. How dare he? “No, I beg your pardon,” Raoul said, shoving Charmaine to the side and belting the pipsqueak in the face, knocking him to the ground.

  Immediately the jerk’s nose started to bleed. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he pressed it to his nose and stared up at him, shaking his head. “You are going to regret that in a minute, buddy.”

  “I don’t think so. No one talks to my wife like that.”

  “Do you really think this is the time for fighting?” Charmaine asked. “And by the way, Raoul, I can fight my own battles.”

  He and Dirk both ignored her.

  Dirk got to his feet, warily keeping his distance from him. “Come over to the side of the house with me. I have something to show you.”

  “What? Is this some kind of bodybuilder trick?”

  But Dirk the Jerk had already walked away from him and stood waiting over by St. Jude. They were about the same size. He dabbed at his still bleeding nose, then tugged a wallet out of the back pocket of his running shorts—that’s all he wore, presumably having been called from bed in the middle of the night.

  He shoved the open wallet in Raoul’s face before he had a chance to sock him again.

  “FBI?” Raoul exclaimed with shock. “You’re with the FBI?”

  “Shhh. I’m working undercover. We’ve about nailed a certain sector of the Dixie Mafia, and Charmaine’s case might just be the nail in the coffin, so to speak.”

  “Whose coffin?” he wanted to know, beginning to suspect that Charmaine was in as much risk of physical danger as she’d originally thought. And the FBI was using her.

  “I was sent here to watch over your wife till things come together.”

  “Does her mother know about this?”

  “Yep. Fleur’s been really cooperative. She’s concerned about her daughter’s safety. Wanted to do whatever she could to help.”

  “Cooperative, huh? Isn’t it a little bit unethical for an FBI agent to get involved sexually while on a case?”

  “Huh?”

  “Fleur. Remember her. Your girlfriend. Oh, don’t deny it. You two make so much noise shaking that tin bus that the cows are getting horny.”

  “Get real! Fleur is old enough to be my mother. We were doing calisthenics.”

  Raoul’s jaw dropped open with surprise. “So, she really isn’t doing a nude pictorial?”

  “Oh, she’s doing it, all right. And she really is worried about cellulite.”

  Despite the grimness of the situation surrounding them, they smiled at each other.

  “Hey, sorry for punching you,” Raoul said, extending a hand for a shake.

  “No problem. I would have done the same for my wife,” Dirk said, “except that she holds a black belt in karate, is a captain in the Army, and could defend herself.”

  So could Charmaine, and she doesn’t know karate from Tae-bo. “I assume you don’t want anyone to know your real identity,” Raoul said as they walked back toward Charmaine, who was talking to Jimmy, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He saw Tante Lulu and Fleur heading into the house. He would bet his boots that a barrel of coffee, turkey sandwiches, and leftover pie would soon be made available to the firemen.

  Jimmy had just walked away and they were almost back to Charmaine when Raoul heard an odd noise.

  “Duck!” Dirk screamed.

  Raoul made a flying leap for Charmaine, thus taking the bullet in his left shoulder. For several moments, he just lay there, crushing her to the ground, while shouts and running feet surrounded them as others rushed to find out who had fired the shot. Tears filled his eyes, not because of the pain, but because he could have lost Charmaine in that moment of carelessness.

  There was no doubt in his mind that the bullet had been intended for Charmaine, possibly because the FBI had gotten involved, though she didn’t even have a clue about that. The barn had been a warning to him, but the bullet had been more than a warning for Charmaine. Someone had tried to kill her.

  It wouldn’t happen again.

  “Get off me. I can’t breathe,” she said, shoving at his chest. “Has everyone lost their minds?” When she saw the blood seeping through his shirt—the bullet must have come clean through his shoulder, back to front—she changed her tune. “You’ve been shot,” she wailed. “I’ve got to hurry and call an ambulance.”

  He had to grab her with the hand on his good side. “I don’t need an ambulance, but we need to get you inside, away from the sniper.” With that, they both ran for the house.

  The Triple L was no longer a safe haven for Charmaine, Raoul soon realized. He would have to get her out of there immediately.

  But how did anyone get Charmaine to do something, unless she wanted to? Now that they’d rediscovered their love for each other, he knew without a doubt that his wife would dig in her heels if she thought he was in the least danger.

  Even as they hugged once they entered the living room, to reassure themselves of each other’s safety . . . even as Tante Lulu morphed into healer mode and bandaged his bullet wound, with the help of some folk antibiotic, which he prayed God wasn’t made with cow shit . . . even as Charmaine fussed over him like a mother hen, Raoul was making plans.

  Charmaine would be leaving the Triple L within the hour, and possibly leaving his life forever. It was the only way.

  Heartaches by the dozen . . .

  “I won’t go,” Charmaine said forcefully. She couldn’t believe that Raoul actually thought she would, after their night of lovemaking . . . just because there was trouble at the Triple L.

  “Yes, you will,” Raoul said, just as forcefully. “Dirk and Fleur have already loaded up the bus. Tante Lulu is packing for herself and you since you won’t help her. The fire chief and the sheriff are outside waiting to talk with me. It’s eight o’clock, way past time I got out to pasture and helped Clarence and Linc with the cattle. Thank the stars that Jimmy’s uncle came to take him away from this mess for the time being. Now, do as you’re told . . . just this once.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I asked?”

  “Not good enough. Come on, Raoul, I’m made of tough stuff.”

  His face went steely and unbending. His hair was tousled. Soot marked parts of his face and arms and most of his clothing. He looked like he’d been through the wringer, which he pretty much had been. No way would she abandon him now.

  “Charmaine, I have enough on my plate now without worrying about you. I want you to leave.”

  “I can help.”

  Off to the side, she saw Tante Lulu come out of one of the bedrooms, lugging a big suitcase. Her worried eyes connected with Raoul’s, and they nodded at each other in the oddest way. As she passed by them on the way out, the old lady patted Raoul on the shoulder and murmured something that sounded like, “Do what ya has to, boy.”

  “Charmaine, honey, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  That got her attention, his words and the doleful expression on his face. She sensed what was coming. Don’t say it, Raoul. Just don’t.

  “It’s over.” He reached out for her, but she slapped his arms away. He didn’t try again.

  How many times do I have to get burned before I finally avoid the fire? When will I ever learn? “How can it be over? It just began . . . last night.” She hated the fact that her voice cracked on those last words.

  “It was a fling. You knew that—”

  It wasn’t a fling. It wasn’t. “No. No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Please don’t make this hard.”

  “What? I should make it easy for you to be a bastard?”

  He winced, but it didn’t alter his next words. “If we hadn’t had the fire and the shooting here last night, you and I probably would have had a good ol’ time for several more days . . . or weeks. But al
l this crap changes everything.”

  “How does it change everything?” My God! Have I no pride at all?

  “I don’t have time for a fling right now. So it’s over. Forgive me, babe, but it’s over, and I want you to leave.”

  “You said you loved me.”

  He said nothing. Nothing!

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want you, Charmaine. Go away. Can I be any clearer than that?”

  She felt as if a vise were clamped around her heart. Tightening, tightening, tightening. She stared at him with disbelief. “Don’t do this, Raoul. Because if you do, I will never forgive you. Some words can never be taken back. Never.”

  He inhaled and exhaled, visibly shaken. But then, he said, “So be it.”

  Charmaine turned away from him and walked stiffly toward the waiting motor home, tears streaming down her face. She’d always thought that a broken heart was an expression, not a real physical malady. She knew different now.

  If only she had turned around, she would have seen that she wasn’t the only one with tears . . . or a broken heart.

  But she didn’t turn around.

  Tears on his pillow . . .

  For two weeks, Raoul operated like a zombie.

  Christmas would be here soon, and he couldn’t have been more crotchety than Scrooge himself. He really was turning into his father, bless his bitter soul.

  He met with fire inspectors, police, his increasingly sadistic parole officer, the FBI and Jimmy’s dad. If all went as planned that week, he would soon have his conviction reversed, much to Devereaux’s chagrin, he was sure. Gaudet was going to face his own prison time for giving false testimony in his drug trial and accepting bribes; there was no longer any doubt about that. And Blue Heron Oil had their high-priced lawyers scurrying like rats to cover their tails. The oil company hadn’t murdered his father, though they probably had contributed to the stress leading to his heart attack, autopsy results showed. The oil company must be responsible, however, for the dead steers and the barn fire and a whole slew of other crimes. Jail time and fines out the kazoo were on someone’s horizon.

  Much of the progress made in his case had been due to Charmaine’s family—Luc and Remy, with their police and P.I. contacts, even Tante Lulu, who kept him up-to-date on everything, except Charmaine. His wife was a taboo subject suddenly for the old lady.

  Jimmy’s dad had elected to let his son return to the ranch this week and stay till January, now that he knew the whole story. It appeared as if the danger was about over.

  Raoul had followed up on a bit of advice Charmaine had given him one time regarding Jimmy. Instead of having the boy spend his half days engaged in physical labor on the ranch, he had put him to work at the computer, logging in the cattle data. The kid was amazing. A real genius with numbers.

  Right now, the gang was coming in for supper.

  As all four of them sat down at the kitchen table, Jimmy moaned. “SpaghettiOs and hot dogs? Again!”

  “Just eat it,” Raoul said.

  “Ya caint have meat loaf and mashed potatoes and gravy every day,” Clarence said with seeming innocence. The old faker! He knew full well that there had been no home-cooked meals at the ranch since Charmaine had left.

  I guess I’m not the only one missing Charmaine.

  They all dug in to the not-so-gourmet meal. Hungry men would eat just about anything. If Jimmy weren’t here, they’d probably be having it with beer.

  “I saw you got a letter today from that publisher,” Raoul said to Linc. “Good news?”

  “Pretty good,” Linc answered. “They want to see a full proposal. That means an outline and a couple chapters. But they are definitely interested.”

  “Way to go!” Clarence said, clapping Linc on the shoulder.

  “Does that mean you’ll be leaving the ranch?” Jimmy asked Linc, obviously concerned about losing a pal . . . although he himself would be going back home next month, with the promise that he could return next summer.

  “Naw, you can’t get rid of me that easy,” Linc said, ruffling the boy’s hair, which was overlong now that Charmaine wasn’t there to trim it. Why does everything keep coming back to Charmaine? “I can write in the evenings. I’ve never been much for TV anyhow.”

  After dinner, Raoul asked Jimmy to come into the office with him. He sat down before the computer, which was already booted up, and motioned for Jimmy to sit beside him.

  Jimmy stared at him quizzically. They’d already completed the ranch business on the computer this morning.

  “I want you to help me with something on the Internet,” he announced. “How do I do a search on a particular subject?”

  “Go to Google or Yahoo.” He leaned in front of him and typed in a web address. When they were there—wherever that was—Jimmy asked, “What subject do you want to research?”

  Raoul sighed loudly, then said, “Dude ranches.”

  Hideout Hell . . .

  “I am so angry I could wring your neck,” Charmaine said, fisting her hands tightly to her sides.

  “Well, at least you’re not crying. Geesh, I never saw anyone cry as much as you.” This not-so-wise pronouncement came from Dirk the Jerk who was lazing about in a hammock at the RV park where they’d been hiding out for more than two weeks. And talk about annoying! The pest stuck to her like a shadow everywhere she went, which was never far. And her mother was just as bad. Fluttering around her like a mama bird with sudden maternal instincts. “Betcha your tear ducts have finally dried up from overuse. Betcha you could bottle those tears and sell ’em to some fancy cosmetics company. Betcha you could get a job on one of the soaps where turning on the tears at will is considered a great talent.”

  Betcha you have a death wish. She made a low, growling sound in her throat.

  Which must have alerted the dumb dude that he was in potential trouble. He wiped the smirk from his unshaven face. He’d stopped shaving a week ago, probably to fit in with the other lowlifes at this lowlife RV camp who sat around all day in folding lawn chairs, drinking beer and belching. It was a perfect hiding spot. The only danger to Charmaine here was flying beer caps. “Okay, what’s the gripe this time?”

  “Where’s the car?”

  “What car?”

  She made the low, growling sound again. “That rusted-out rattletrap that is usually attached to the rusted-out Winnebago.”

  He smiled at her description, which was not a good thing to do, considering her mood.

  “Your mother drove it to Houston.”

  Is that why she asked me to do her hair and makeup? “Why?”

  “For the photo shoot.”

  Yep! “And Tante Lulu?” Charmaine suddenly realized that the old lady was missing, too.

  “Fleur is dropping her off along the way. Your aunt has some patient with cataracts that needs her help.”

  Wait a minute. I know I just woke up, but my brain isn’t so fuzzy that I don’t realize something strange is going on here. “I thought it was too dangerous for us to leave this godforsaken place.”

  “It was.”

  “Was? Your neck is looking more and more tempting.”

  “Luc phoned this morning to say that we can get out of hiding after the court papers are filed today.”

  “Phone? What phone? I didn’t know we had a phone.”

  “Remy is on his way to pick you up”—he glanced down at his wrist watch—“in about a half hour.”

  “And y’all just let me sleep through these events in that steambath on wheels? And my mother and Tante Lulu left without telling me all this?”

  He shrugged. “Your aunt said you needed to rest . . . after all that crying.”

  Like my aunt is the expert on what is good for me! “And whose idea was it to leave you behind with me?”

  “Mine.” He beamed at her. As if she ever in a million years would relish his company! “And, by the way, you might want to be nicer to me . . . once you find out who I really am.”

  L
ike I care! She narrowed her eyes at the obnoxious oaf.

  He continued to lie, all relaxed and gloating, on the hammock, while he pulled a wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. Flipping it open, he handed it to her.

  She couldn’t believe what she read. “FBI? You?”

  He pretended offense by clapping a hand over his wounded heart. “Why is that so surprising?”

  “Because you are so annoying.”

  “What? FBI agents can’t be annoying?”

  I am not in the mood for jokes. “You are sleeping with a woman old enough to be your mother.”

  “I am not sleeping with your mother. She’s my cover.”

  Cover? Cover? “Well, cover that,” she said, flipping over the edge of the hammock, thus tumbling him to the ground. He just laughed as he got to his feet and recovered his wallet.

  “God, my wife would love you.”

  “You’ve got a wife, and you’re boinking my mother? Forget about annoying. You’re despicable.” Men! God must have created them to torture women.

  “I told you, your mother and I are not involved . . . that way.”

  “So, let me get this straight. You and my mother are in cahoots . . . for what reason?”

  “To protect you till the FBI arrests some major players in the Dixie Mafia.”

  “Would that include Bobby Doucet?”

  “It would. He was taken into custody this morning. Charged with loan sharking, attempted murder, and a half dozen other crimes.”

  Nice for someone to include me in the loop. “Does that mean I won’t have to pay him any more money?”

  “Sounds that way.”

  She had to smile at that. “You’re still an annoying pipsqueak.”

  “I love it when you sweet-talk me.”

  “What is your wife . . . a masochist?”

  He grinned. “Sometimes.”

  She thought of something else. “How many people know you’re with the FBI?”

  “Only a few.”

  Don’t ask, Charmaine. You don’t really want to know. “Would one of them be Raoul?”