Читать книгу Under the Autumn Sky - Liz Talley - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

April, 2011

ABRAM DUFRENE HADN’T wanted to cover Daryll Moreland’s recruiting area any more than he wanted to lick a donkey’s butt, but there was no choice in the matter. Louisiana University’s head football coach Leonard Holt’s word was law, so Abram sucked it up, grabbed a coffee and hit the road in his quest for the next best wide-out or bone-cruncher for the Panthers.

Pulling Abram from his old recruiting area covering Mississippi through Florida didn’t bother Coach Holt. He didn’t have a mother living west of Baton Rouge in the new recruiting area, did he? No, his mother was far, far away in his native state of Ohio. Didn’t Holt know Abram couldn’t pass his birthplace of Beau Soleil and not stop in? His mother had eyes and ears all over the state of Louisiana. Somehow she’d know and the guilt trip would start. Abram had never been able to get away with anything. His mother always found out.

Not that he was a momma’s boy or anything.

No, quite the opposite, but Picou Dufrene was like the hurricanes that often ravage the Louisiana coastline—she hit with a fury leaving a person standing among rubble blinking up at the sparkling sun wondering what the hell had happened. She killed with a smile…and an assload of guilt.

So he’d stopped by the home place, a near-to-crumbling Greek revival plantation several miles from I-10 between Lafayette and Baton Rouge, gulped down chicory coffee and some of the housekeeper Lucille’s buttermilk pie, and listened to his mother prattle about his brothers—and his sister, who’d recently been reconciled to the family after having spent years presumed dead. Sally was always part of the conversation.

“You are coming to my birthday dinner on Friday?” his mother had asked when they stepped out onto the veranda. It wasn’t a question. It was a reminder.

“Of course. I should be there.”

Picou’s blue eyes narrowed even as she smiled. Which was hard to do, but the woman mastered challenges. “Should?”

“Will,” he said, shuffling his travel schedule in his mind. He’d totally forgotten her 60th-ish birthday. His future sister-in-law, Annie, had sent him an email reminder last week, but he’d skimmed over it. Lots more in his inbox that needed attention.

“That’s my sweet Abram,” his mother said, giving him a kiss on the cheek goodbye, making him feel like he was a seven-year-old child. How did mothers always do that?

The side trip to Beau Soleil had put him off schedule by a good two hours, but as he neared the small town harboring the state’s best prospect at tight end, Abram’s focus shifted to his job. He was confident he could land this kid.

Yawning, Abram studied the straight dark highway ahead of him before switching off the heat and turning up Better than Ezra on the radio.

He was dog-tired.

The spring game had revealed the need to pad the roster at tight end, and as much as he needed rest from the marathon recruiting season and the grueling spring practice schedule, he knew he had work to do. Always work to do when one coached a top-tiered Division I football team. Even on vacation, he worked.

But it was what he wanted.

What he’d wanted since the day he’d hung up his own cleats—to coach at his alma mater.

So he shut up and put up, and did whatever it took to do his job and do it well. He was the youngest position coach on the University of Louisiana, Baton Rouge, staff and he was still hungry.

Which was why he was currently headed up Interstate 49 toward the small town of Bonnet Creek, a dot on the map, but current home of Waylon Boyd. Boyd was a big drink of water at six foot five inches, two hundred thirty-five pounds. Good hands, nice physicality and covered major ground on his runs. He reminded Abram of Jeremy Witten, so he’d kept his eye on Waylon ever since he’d seen tape on him last October.

When the boy had shown up for Junior Day on the ULBR campus, Abram had taken a special interest in the prospect. A nice 4.63 on the 40-yard dash combined with marked improvement on his quickness, meant Abram wanted Waylon on the Panthers’ roster come 2012. Tomorrow began the period in which he could make his first call to Waylon, but he never discounted the importance of contact with a recruit’s head coach. Some things were better done in person.

The exit to Ville Platte materialized in the vacant landscape, and Abram, stuck on the left of an eighteen-wheeler, blew by it.

Damn it.

He looked at the empty water bottle in the cup holder and groaned. Maybe he shouldn’t have drunk the entire thing on top of the coffee. He ignored his full bladder and charged forth. He’d take the next exit for Chicot State Park and head back toward Ville Platte, where he had a room for the night since there was no motel in Bonnet Creek. Sleepy Town Inn. He’d stayed in worse, he supposed, but he wasn’t looking forward to a lumpy bed and King of the Hill reruns. Maybe he could find a place to wet his whistle close by so he could wind down.

And like a wish bestowed, a large rambling honky-tonk appeared ahead of him on the right.

Rendezvous.

Normally he wasn’t spontaneous, but he had to take a leak. And a beer would help him sleep. He jerked the steering wheel, sending his big F250 into the gravel lot off the cedar-clad, tin-roofed building, taking the last spot.

Music spilled out into the cool air, raucous and inviting. This wasn’t a simple bar and grill where one sat alone watching an NBA game while nursing a longneck. No, this sounded like Ladies’ Night at a college bar. He glanced around. The lot was full for a Wednesday, filled with big trucks like his, many with camouflage accessories and most with ULBR license plate holders and decals.

Abram looked down at his purple sweater vest with the ULBR logo over the breast.

No freaking way.

He’d be swarmed by the ULBR faithful as soon as they saw the businesslike athletic department moniker on the breast of the sweater. They’d know he was part of the program, and after a less than impressive spring game shown on ESPNU, he’d not be able to find any anonymity in the out-of-the-way dive.

He pulled the sweater vest over his head, leaving his white oxford button-down, thankfully clean of logos. He squinted at himself in the rearview mirror and smoothed the light brown hair that stuck up from the static in the sweater. Not bad.

He climbed out, sliding his keys in the front pocket of his jeans and his wallet in the back.

One beer, then he’d be off to Ville Platte.

No harm in that.

* * *

LOU BOYD TRIPPED over a stone surrounding the sign proclaiming Rendezvous as Home of the Legendary Cooter Gilbeau, which she thought was quite a reach since Cooter had only been a percussionist for the Charlie Daniels Band for one year. But whatever. She guessed old Cooter was proud of his cowbell days. She frowned down at the red stilettos her friend insisted she borrow. Hell of a shoe to wear when walking through a loose-gravel parking lot.

“Hurry up, Louise,” Mary Belle Prudhomme called, swishing toward the broad steps of the honky-tonk in her own too-tight jeans and a skimpy top. “I told Bear I’d be here over an hour ago. He’s probably got some little slut in his lap already.”

“You mean other than you?” Brittney Wade, the bookkeeper for Forcet Construction drawled, stopping to wait on Lou. The more practical Brittney had planned the evening and volunteered to be the designated driver, which was good considering Lou felt woozy from the mojitos the girls had made for Lou’s twenty-seventh birthday gala. Lou celebrated the small victory in Mary Belle letting her take off the silly tiara the woman had bought her. The shoes were bad enough.

Mary Belle paused to flip Brittney off. Brit laughed. “Kidding. Just kidding.”

Lou made it up the wooden plank steps, blinking at the flashing beer signs and advertisements for bands playing the honky-tonk soon. She didn’t think this was such a good idea. Rendezvous wasn’t the kind of place she belonged in…or at least hadn’t for a long time. “It’s been fun already, girls. We don’t have to stay out all night. We have work tomorrow and Waylon and Lori have school tomorrow and—”

“Not another word,” Brenda Pierpont warned with one finger. “You’re twenty-seven years old and never go out. This is our treat. Don’t ruin it for us, ’kay?”

Lou gave the older woman who ran the construction office a pained smile.

“Okay, then,” Brenda said, smoothing her orangey hair back and the shirt over her poochy belly. Brenda had been the one who insisted Lou wear makeup tonight and had indulged her own desire to be the host of What Not to Wear by outfitting Lou in her daughter Jillian’s wardrobe, namely a too-tight T-shirt that was low-cut and blinged-out with colored sequins. Lou looked like a rainbow had vomited on her.

Lou tackled the last step, praying she’d mastered walking in the shoes that were already rubbing blisters. This was why she loved her steel-toed work boots. But she could do this. For her friends’ sake.

Mary Belle turned and swept her with her bright eyes. “You don’t look like Lou Boyd. No one is going to even recognize you. Get ready, baby, men are about to be on you like flies on cow shit.”

Lou winced. She’d let them kidnap her, and truss her up with tight clothes, makeup and dangly earrings—all with the ultimate intent of taking her to Rendezvous for Ladies’ Night to celebrate her birthday.

In all honesty, Lou would have rather eaten chocolate pudding and watched some Netflix, but her coworkers had gone to such trouble and seemed almost giddy about taking her out for fun. “I’m not looking for a man, Mary. Well, not for a while anyway. I can’t really date with two kids to—”

“Um, they’re in high school now, Lou. And they’re not your kids. You’re entitled to a life, so stop being a martyr. No one likes a martyr,” Brit said, jerking her head toward the entrance to the honky-tonk. “So get your ass in gear, Louise.”

Trapped. And she didn’t appreciate being criticized just because taking care of two teenagers didn’t lend itself to a carefree lifestyle. After all, she had to get her brother up for a Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting tomorrow, and her day at the construction company started at 7:00 a.m. She had a family to tend to. No matter what Brit said.

There was reality and then there was Lou’s reality. The reality of no life. No love. Oh, sure, she’d tried. She’d dated, but no matter. No man wanted a woman with two kids to raise—even if they were her brother and sister.

Lou had learned long ago to wish differently didn’t do one damn bit of good. She wasn’t a martyr—just doing what had to be done by taking care of Waylon and Lori the only way she knew how. Fairness wasn’t up for consideration.

But she was here, shellacked with makeup and too tipsy to drive herself home. Might as well try to act her age. Which was younger than she felt. At the very least, she’d have a drink, watch Mary Belle act a fool over Bear Rodrigue, and then proclaim a headache. She could be home before—she looked at her watch—eleven o’clock easy.

Oh, come on, Lou. Let go a little. Flirt with being more than what you are for just one night.

Point made, voice in her head. “Okay. Ass in gear.”

Brenda pulled open the door to the bar. “In the words of Shania Twain, ‘let’s go, girls.’”

Lou smiled back. “Sure. No harm in that.”

* * *

ABRAM WATCHED THE BAND from his perch at the end of the bar. They were good, especially the drummer. Probably barely eighteen, but she could lay a lick.

The place rocked with rowdy rednecks and coonasses. He wasn’t much of a partier—tended to be a nose to grindstone sort—but he enjoyed watching others pass a good time. It was something easy to find in Louisiana. From Shreveport to New Orleans and every town in between, the natives liked a reason to get together and indulge in fun.

The patrons at Rendezvous were no exception. The dance floor was large, surrounded by tables with two bars anchoring each side of the stage. He’d chosen the bar closest to the bathrooms only because it was the first stool he’d spied after exiting the john. He nursed the icy Blue Moon and pretended to be an anthropologist studying the local wildlife.

His eyes moved over the crowd as they ebbed and flowed onto the dance floor. Several women tried catching his eye, but he looked past them, refusing to open himself to any conversation. Mostly, everyone left him alone, only occasionally eyeballing him curiously, before going about the business of getting drunk or getting lucky.

The door opened and four women entered.

The last one made him swallow. Hard.

Damn, she was gorgeous with straight blond hair, high full breasts and long, long legs. He watched as she crowded into the woman in front of her, who by his estimate was forty pounds too heavy to be wearing the clothes she wore. He watched the blonde—and so did almost every other man in the room.

If this were the ball, then Cinderella had just walked in.

He lifted his beer and took the last swig. He’d told himself he would leave when the bottle was empty. He glanced over at the bartender who’d raised himself onto the balls of his boots to get a look at the beauty. He raised his eyebrows and whistled in admiration.

“Can I get another one over here?” Abram called.

So much for an early night.

The bartender flung a towel over his shoulder. “Same?”

“Why not,” Abram said, moving his gaze back to the woman. He couldn’t find her, mostly because several rowdy-looking rednecks had blocked his view. Followed by a few more. Then a few more.

The bartender used a church key, cracking open the beer with a practiced motion, and setting it on the bar. “Wanna tab?”

Abram shook his head and placed a ten on the bar. “This will be my last. Keep the change.”

The man nodded his thanks. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

So he’d seen him notice Cinderella. Figured. Bartenders didn’t miss a thing. “Yeah. Is she your local beauty queen?”

“Ain’t never seen her in my life. Must be a stranger. Like you.”

There was a subtle question in the statement. An invitation to state his business. He ignored it. “Maybe I’ll buy her a drink.”

“Better get in line.”

The bartender went back to work, mostly because money was being waggled at him. Lots of thirsty customers at Rendezvous. And Abram went back to watching the beauty dodge the advances of the men surrounding her and her friends. She looked like a dog he’d once seen trapped by animal control. Caught and not happy about it.

“I haven’t seen you here before.” The voice came from his left. He turned to find one of the women who’d walked in with Cinderella. She looked kind of pissy. Definitely mad.

“First timer,” he said, toasting her with the fresh beer. “Can I buy you one?”

Her gaze was fastened on someone behind him. He turned and saw the man she was trying to burn a hole through with her poisonous eyes. He stood in line for Cinderella. She looked back at Abram. “Well, honey, you’re the best-looking man in this place. Think I’m gonna turn that down?”

He smiled.

She smiled in return, but it didn’t reach her blue eyes.

“I’m Mary,” she said, elbowing the man next to him off his stool. “Move, Eddie. Can’t you see I’m a lady and I need to sit down?”

“That’s stretchin’ it by a mile,” the man said, but he grinned fondly at the woman who settled her rather plump butt on the bar stool. “How’s it going, Mary Belle?”

“It’s goin’,” she said, motioning the bartender over. “Hey, Butch, get me an Abita amber and put it on this fellow’s tab.”

Butch glanced over. “He ain’t gotta tab.”

She looked at Abram, who pulled out his wallet. “So whatcha doing here? We don’t get too many visitors. You with Wildlife and Fisheries? Over at Chicot?”

“Nah,” he said, sliding a bill toward the bartender. “Just traveling through.”

“Oh.” She turned to look at her friend and her bevy of admirers, including the Wrangler-clad guy she’d shot daggers at earlier. “Well, then you’re perfect to do me a little favor, aren’t you?”

Alarm bells clanged. He started shaking his head.

She grabbed the elbow of his shirt. “It’s easy as long as you aren’t married. You ain’t married, are you? I didn’t see a ring, but some guys don’t wear ’em, you know.”

“I’m not married, but I’m about to head out.”

“Won’t take long. I just need you to pretend to be my friend’s date.”

“Date?”

“Yeah, Louise over there. I didn’t realize the ruckus she’d cause. She’s pretty.”

That was an understatement. The woman she pointed at wasn’t merely pretty. She was sensationally gorgeous. “So I see.”

“You and every other man. It’s her birthday and I wanted her to come out with us and have a little fun, you know? But damn ol’ Bear Rodrigue don’t even know I’m in the room. He’s standing over there by her like a rutting buck.” She turned her blue eyes back to him. “And he’s supposed to be ruttin’ me.”

He didn’t know why or how this woman had found him in the sea of people stomping around Rendezvous, but she had. With a plan in mind.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Of course it is. You think she wants all those dumbass men tripping over themselves like that? She is clearly drowning in ’em. All you have to do is pretend to be her date. I’ll introduce you as my cousin. Come on.”

She pulled on his arm. Insistently.

He shook his head. “I’ve got to be going.”

She looked down at her watch. “Give me thirty minutes to help a stranger out. What’s your name?”

“Abram.” He sighed. Well, he’d wanted to buy Cinderella a drink, hadn’t he? This would be his chance. Plus, poor Mary Belle needed someone to help her, too. He rose, picking up his fresh beer, and allowed the crazy woman to pull him toward the center of Rendezvous’ universe for the moment.

Cinderella had pasted a fake smile on her gorgeous mouth. She nodded and darted desperate glances at her two remaining friends. Yeah, she needed some help.

He’d pretend to be her date for the next half hour.

Surely there was no harm in that.