Rochelle Alers - A Time To Keep

The lush setting had become a reality. Boston-born, reared, and educated, Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor was about to trade the cold, harsh New England winters for the lush, sultry heat of Bayou Teche, the largest of Louisiana’s many bayous.

Her parents, her father in particular, were opposed to her moving so far away. Millard and Paulette Taylor had lost one child, a son, to leukemia before he entered adolescence, and sought to hold onto their surviving child at all costs.

She took another quick look at the screen. She would be home within another two miles. Home—a house she’d only seen in photographs, a place that was hers to renovate or decorate to suit her tastes.

Gwen left Franklin’s Main Street and maneuvered onto a narrow, winding road leading to the property known to the locals as Bon Temps. The setting sun turned the surrounding landscape into a swamp that she glimpsed through a shadowy veil. Cypress, pine and oak trees draped in Spanish moss stood like sentinels overlooking a body of slow-moving water teeming with various wildlife while providing perches for species of birds she’d never seen before.

She was so awed by the beauty of the scenery that she didn’t see the three-legged dog hopping across the road. Swerving sharply to avoid hitting the dog, she veered to the right, skidded, and came to an abrupt end in a ditch.

“Damn!” she muttered between clenched teeth.

Taking a deep breath, she shifted into Reverse, then into Drive, stepped on the gas as the car went completely still. There was only the sound of spinning tires. She shifted again, this time into Park, and stared through the windshield. She was literally stuck in the mud.

Gwen saw something moving in the water less than a hundred feet from where she sat—stranded—a prisoner in her own vehicle. She didn’t know what was gliding under the smooth surface, and didn’t much want to know because she wasn’t getting out of the car.

Reaching for her cell phone, she scrolled through the directory while she searched through her leather handbag on the passenger-side seat for her credit card case. Pressing a button, she listened to the ringing for a programmed number.

“Road assistance, Zack speaking.”

Gwen gave Zack her name, membership number and her location. He took the information, telling her he would call her back as soon as he had located a nearby service station.

Drumming her fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, she hummed a nameless tune while awaiting a call back. Ten minutes later, she grabbed the receiver after the first ring.

“Gwendolyn Taylor.”

“Miss Taylor, this is Zack. I called two stations in your area, one doesn’t have a tow truck, and the other is out on a call.”

“What time will he be back?”

“It’s going to be at least an hour.”

“An hour!” she repeated, her voice rising slightly. There was no way she was going to sit in a car alone surrounded by who-knew-what type of wildlife creeping, crawling, or slithering around her.

“Do you want to wait, Miss Taylor?” Zack drawled.

Why, she wondered, did it take him more than thirty seconds to say seven words. The further south she’d driven, the more pronounced the drawl. “I’ll call you back,” she said, not knowing what else to say. She ended the call, then dialed nine-one-one.

“St. Martin Parish Police. Deputy Jameson speaking.”

She took a deep breath. “Deputy Jameson, my name is Gwendolyn Taylor, and I’m stuck in a ditch on the road leading to Bon Temps. I called for road service, but was told they can’t come for another hour.”

“Are you alone, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“What type of ve-hic-le are you driving?”

Gwen shook her head. He’d drawled out vehicle into more than three syllables. “It’s a dark blue BMW sedan.”

“I’ll radio one of our officers to assist you. Make certain you keep your cell phone on in case we have to call you.”

“I will. Thank you, Deputy Jameson.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

Holding the tiny phone in a death grip, she sat back and waited for one of St. Martin Parish’s finest to rescue her.

* * *

Sheriff Shiloh Harper glanced at the watch strapped to his left wrist for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past hour. He couldn’t wait for his shift to end so he could go home, take a cool shower, and crawl into the hammock on the screened-in second-story veranda, where he could remind himself that he was one day closer to prosecuting criminals instead of arresting them.

He was covering for a vacationing deputy, and had spent the shift mediating petty incidents: a teenage boy had pumped two dollars more in gas than he had on him; a fifteen-year-old girl had tried to buy beer with a fake ID; and he’d issued a slew of tickets for drivers exceeding the speed limit in a school zone.

As he slowed the police-issued Suburban SUV, he maneuvered behind a copse of trees to wait for wannabe NASCAR drivers who used a stretch of roadway without a stop sign or traffic lights as their private racetrack. Leaning back in the leather seat, he stared at the radar device and waited for the sun to set. With the approach of nightfall, he was certain to catch at least a couple of speeders before his noon-to-eight-o’clock shift ended.

“Shiloh?”

He sat up, suddenly alert when his deputy’s voice came through the small two-way radio clipped to his left shoulder. “Yes, Jimmie.”

“I just got a call from a woman who’s stranded along the road to Bon Temps. I don’t think she’s from around here because she talks real funny. You want her number?”

“No. Call and let her know I’m on my way.”

Shiloh ended the call, placed the red light on the dashboard and headed onto the roadway. Motorists, seeing the flashing red light, moved over to the shoulder to give the official vehicle the right of way. Within minutes of Jimmie Jameson’s call, he had pulled up opposite a dark-colored, late-model sedan with Massachusetts license plates. A slight smile curved the corners of his mouth when he remembered what his deputy said about the stranded motorist talking funny. Pushing open the door, he reached for a flashlight before alighting from the SUV and approaching the car.

He switched on the flashlight and knocked softly on the driver’s door. Large dark eyes stared at him through the glass; he gestured for her to lower the window. She complied and the smell of new leather mixed with the subtle scent of a sensual perfume wafted from the interior.

“I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle, miss.”

Gwen stared at the shadowy face of the man only inches from her own. “I can’t,” she said breathlessly. The eyes staring back at Gwen reminded of her a cat’s. They were an odd shade of gold-green. What made them appear so unusual was that they were set in a brown face with hues ranging from sienna to alizarin.

His eyebrow lifted. “Are you injured?”

She shook her head like someone in a trance. The time she’d spent in the car waiting for assistance had traumatized her. She’d imagined the most macabre scenarios: an alligator climbing up on the hood of the car and smashing the windshield with his powerful tail; a venomous insect crawling in and biting her; or that the mud was quicksand.

“I can’t get out,” she said, unable to control the quiver in her voice.

Reaching into the car, Shiloh released the lock, and opened the door. Hunkering down, he directed the beam of light around the car’s interior. He trained the flashlight on the woman’s legs and feet, which were clad in a pair of cropped pants and sandals. His expressive eyebrows lifted again. She had nice legs and beautifully groomed feet. Her sandals screamed couture with a price tag that probably exceeded the weekly salary of many local residents.