Rochelle Alers - A Time To Keep

What once had been a very active social life dwindled to an occasional encounter, most not going beyond the two-date limit. This suited her just fine because she preferred spending time alone, reading, seeing movies, and trying out new recipes to wasting her time with boorish, egotistical men who believed if they were treating her to dinner, then she should become their dessert at the end of the night.

She refused to become any man’s dessert, possession, and definitely not his trophy. If they did not see or treat her as an equal, then she was prepared to spend the rest of her life—alone.

If she hadn’t been so famished, she would’ve enjoyed her stroll. The fragrant odor of flowers growing wild faded as she approached the water. Her steps slowed as she saw La Boule, a boat painted a brilliant red and black, moored at the pier. She moved closer, the spongy earth giving way under the soles of her high-heel sandals.

“You want to cross the water with Etienne, missy?”

Gwen turned to find a wizened old man with a long beard that looked as if he’d glued a profusion of Spanish moss to his chin. He sat on a folding chair under a piece of tarpaulin supported by a quartet of rusting poles. Four late-model cars and six pickup trucks were parked nearby under a large tin shed open on two sides.

She assumed he was asking her whether she wanted him to take her across the bayou. “Yes, I do. How much is the fare to the Outlaw?”

“No pay if you go to the Outlaw,” he mumbled. Etienne pushed off the wooden chair, adjusted the bib of his overalls, and shuffled down to the pier to the ferryboat. Gwen followed.

She made her way onto the ferryboat and sat down on a padded bench. As Etienne started up the engine and backed away from the shore, she stared at the passing landscape. Her breath caught in her chest as she entered an ethereal world that appeared primal and hostile. Moving at a speed less than three knots, La Boule provided her with a panoramic view of the bayou with its lush vegetation and ancient tree limbs before coming to a final rest in the muddy-water stream that meandered and twisted for a hundred and twenty-five miles.

Moving closer to the railing, she peered through a haze of muted gray and greens as a flock of snowy-white egrets settled down on the sandbar Angelique had mentioned. A loud splash garnered her attention; a large turtle swam just below the surface of the water.

She glimpsed the outline of a Greek Revival mansion through a copse of moss-draped oaks, the pristine white structure an exact replica of her home, but on a larger scale. She did not want to think about her ancestors who labored under the yoke of slavery to maintain the grandeur of the antebellum residences and the land from which the owners derived their wealth. The boat slowed, bumping against the wharf and Gwen leaned over the railing, peering up at a building erected on stilts.

Etienne turned the wheel until La Boule was parallel to the Outlaw’s wharf. He cut the engine, left the wheelhouse and tossed a thick rope over a stanchion. He was waiting for Gwen as she disembarked. Cupping her elbow, he led her off the boat.

He smiled, displaying a mouth filled with worn yellow teeth. “Bon appetit.”

She returned his smile, reaching into her cavernous leather bag. She pulled out several bills and pressed them into the ferryman’s hand. “Merci beaucoup.”

Etienne pocketed the money without glancing at what his passenger had given him. “ Merci, missy.”

Gwen climbed the wooden steps to the Outlaw as tantalizing smells wafted through the many screened-in windows. Right about now she was hungry enough to eat a critter: alligator, rattlesnake, squirrel, or possum.

* * *

Shiloh glanced up from the newspaper spread out on his left when the waitress placed his order on the table. “Thanks, Juleen.”

Her dark eyes sparkled as she met Shiloh’s gaze. “Do you want me to freshen up your coffee, Sheriff Harper?”

A frown replaced his forced smile. Most St. Martin Parish residents knew not to call him sheriff whenever he was out of uniform, but Juleen Aucoin persisted. The few times he’d spoken to his brother about it, Ian revealed that Juleen was looking to become the next Mrs. Shiloh Harper.

If Juleen believed she was flirting with him, then she’d just struck out—big time. Since his divorce he’d ignored every woman’s attempt to tease, flirt or get him to either date her or share her bed. He wasn’t exempt from making mistakes, but he was proud to admit that he’d never repeated one. He’d fallen in love and married, believing once he exchanged vows it would be happily ever after but it hadn’t been and he’d sworn never to marry again.

“Please leave the pot, Juleen,” he ordered in a soft voice.

Her pink lips parted at the same time a rush of color darkened her pretty face. “It’s the only pot with coffee, Shiloh.”

Shiloh exhaled audibly. “I’m certain my brother has another coffeepot somewhere in his kitchen.”

“He does.”

Raising his expressive eyebrows, he said, “Then I suggest you brew some more.”

The waitress placed the half-filled carafe on the table and walked away, pouting. Short of stripping naked, she’d tried everything to get Shiloh Harper to notice her. The moment that rumors were confirmed that Shiloh had moved out of the restored mansion he’d shared with his wife and into a smaller house in a gated community, she along with every other eligible woman in the parish, regardless of their age flirted shamelessly with him. But to the women’s consternation, the former district attorney ignored their overtures, leading most to believe that he hadn’t gotten over Deandrea.

Rumors also circulated that if he wasn’t seeing a woman, then he must be involved in a same-sex liaison, rumors Juleen refused to believe. One of her girlfriends who worked in the local Eckerd’s where Shiloh bought his toiletries whispered that he never bought condoms, which led Juleen to believe that he was possibly celibate. And celibacy wasn’t something she attributed to the acting sheriff. Men who looked like Shiloh Harper exuded too much sensuality to be asexual. She decided to give him one more try. The next time she would be subtler in her approach.

* * *

Shiloh picked up the carafe and refilled his coffee mug. He needed coffee to keep him alert—lots of it because he’d spent the night tossing and turning in the hammock until he was forced to abandon it in favor of his bed. He’d come to detest sleeping in the bed because it reminded him of how solitary his life had become. He had two days off—forty-eight hours in which he’d planned to read, watch a few movies, and do several loads of laundry.

He closed his eyes as he took a sip of the steaming black coffee liberally laced with chicory. Shiloh smiled. His younger brother Ian was known for brewing the best coffee in southern Louisiana.

A sudden and pregnant hush fell over the restaurant, and Shiloh opened his eyes to find Gwendolyn Taylor strolling into the Outlaw as if it was something she did every day. Coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug, burning his fingers, before he realized his hand was shaking. Setting down the cup, he shook his hand, then blotted up the liquid with a paper napkin.

Rising slowly to his feet, he watched her come closer, his penetrating gaze sweeping from her head to her feet within seconds. The flyway curly hairdo was missing, and in its place a chignon secured on the nape of her long, slender neck. She’d managed to tame the sensual curls with a style that was casual and chic at the same time.

She wore a silky, lace-trimmed, bright pink top over a pair of faded jeans that hugged her tight, compact body like a second skin. His gaze lingered on her feet. Today she wore a pair of high-heeled sandals in a rose-pink-and-navy print. Very pretty, but definitely not practical for a stroll.