Bayou Beginnings Page 7

  Cleo smiled. “Well, nothing terrible yet. He’s happy we’re going to have a school, but who wouldn’t be? And of course he’s interested in filling the position. He works at a teachers’ college.”

  With renewed hope, she went back to her reading:

  And thus, in the spirit of friendship, I will be more than happy to come to your assistance by providing you with the name of a suitable candidate. In fact, I have taken the liberty of speaking to a colleague of mine who happened to be in my office at the time your letter was delivered. This colleague, a learned woman by the name of Ellen Granville, would be most pleased to take on the education of the local children, and she is. . .

  “No,” Cleo whispered. “It can’t be.”

  Once again, she let the paper fall. This time it sailed past the coverlet and lodged between the washbasin and the wall. She fell back against the pillows and tried not to cry. Failing that, she let the tears flow and closed her eyes.

  When she opened her eyes once more, the sun slanted through her windows, waking Cleo from what was a brief but fitful sleep. She blinked hard, then shook her head to dislodge the cobwebs from her brain. Was it morning?

  She looked out the window at the position of the sun. Hardly morning, it seemed more like midafternoon. Cleo rose and washed her face in the basin, then patted it dry. As she returned the towel to its place, she noticed the slip of paper at her feet.

  The letter.

  Bending to retrieve it, she allowed the page to fall open. As she reread the words her uncle’s friend had penned, she noticed she hadn’t read the entire text of the letter.

  . . .and she is pleased to state that pending your favorable response, she will arrive in Latagnier at summer’s end.

  “At summer’s end.” Cleo whispered the words, then repeated them, rolling the sounds over on her tongue as she enunciated each syllable with care.

  What lovely words they were. Words that bought her an entire summer’s worth of time to convince Uncle Joe that she should be the teacher, not some woman named Ellen Granville whose only credentials were a college education and a letter of recommendation from Uncle Joe’s friend.

  Cleo giggled. So much could happen between now and summer’s end. After all, March was on its way out, and April dawned in two days. In five months’ time, Cleo fully expected to have the children of Latagnier on their way to a well-rounded education and to have her uncle convinced that another teacher was unnecessary.

  Folding the page back into its original shape and inserting it in the envelope, she tucked it into her pocket and pinched her cheeks to heighten the color. With five months until her deadline, she would definitely need a partner to see it to completion.

  As she passed the kitchen table, she gave passing thought to replacing the letter in the pile of mail. Instead, she decided to own up to reading the letter in person rather than risk Uncle Joe or Tante Flo finding the evidence before she returned.

  Crossing the lawn, she veered toward the path leading along the bayou, then struck out for the far end of the property where the little cabin—and her future—awaited. It wasn’t until she neared the building site that she began to have second thoughts.

  What if the carpenter went to her uncle with the news that she’d been meddling? Worse, what if she caught him by surprise again and caused him to. . .well, she just wouldn’t think on that. This time she’d call his name from the time she stepped out of the thicket until she neared the cabin. Until he responded, she’d just keep calling.

  This decided, she picked up her pace, stepping carefully through the thicket lest the big cottonmouth left any friends or family behind. The thought of asking the carpenter for help made meeting a snake seem positively fun.

  Signs of progress greeted her as she neared the cabin. The roof seemed to have been patched, and the porch no longer held rotten boards on its newly painted floor. Even the handrails seemed to stand straighter, although they did not yet wear a new coat of paint.

  Cleo peered into the parlor window. The mess she’d encountered upon her last trip here had been replaced by a room swept clean of wood and dust. Grandma’s bed still stood in the center of the room, but it had been stripped of its mattress, which now sat rolled up in the corner.

  Was it her imagination or perhaps a trick of the light? Rather than wearing the signs of age, the old iron bed seemed to have been polished to a bright shine.

  “Strange.”

  She walked to the front door and pushed on it, smiling when it gave way. “Monsieur Breaux,” she called.

  No answer.

  Cleo stepped inside and looked around. This part had also been cleared away, and the wall that formerly divided the space had been removed. Marks on another wall showed where the carpenter planned to create space for a new door.

  To her right, an area perfect for rows of students to sit greeted her. On her left, she saw a place for the old desk from Uncle Joe’s attic. The center had been left open, a grand space despite its tiny proportions.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, Cleo tried to imagine what the room would be like once it had been filled with children. With the windows open to the breeze off the bayou and the cobwebs gone, this would be a fit schoolroom.

  The carpenter had outdone himself.

  “Merci beaucoup, Lord,” she whispered as she made her way to the door and emerged into the bright sunshine.

  She stepped carefully off the porch and called the Breaux fellow’s name once more. Still no answer.

  Rounding the corner, she spied Theophile Breaux standing beside a pile of lumber, a saw in one hand. When she waved, he seemed to ignore her. As she called his name, he shook his head.

  “Go on home,” came the gruff response.

  “I’d like a word with you.” She ignored his frown to offer a smile. “Please,” she added. “I won’t take up much time. I promise.”

  “You already have,” he said as he pressed past her to head for the cabin, then disappeared around the corner.

  Eleven

  Theo tempered his anger as he stomped across the porch. His first inclination was to give the heavy front door a swift kick or, better yet, to send it swinging so hard it flew off the hinges.

  But slamming the door and causing something he had repaired to break again wouldn’t serve any good. Given his frustration level, it sure would feel dandy about now, however.

  Still, he’d be the one who would have to fix it, and extra repairs meant extra time in Latagnier. The last thing he needed was more time in this town.

  More time in close proximity to Clothilde Trahan.

  “Last thing I need,” he grumbled.

  Theo stomped inside, leaving the front door standing open. He didn’t dare touch it for fear he’d go against his good intentions and close the thing so hard he’d bust out the frame and half the front wall.

  A swirl of blue caught his attention outside. He stopped short. Clothilde Trahan still stood beside the woodpile, her skirts swaying in the fresh breeze. While he watched, the wind picked up her waist-length braid, then let it drop once more. All the while, she seemed to be staring at a point opposite the house.

  Theo stepped back when she directed her attention toward the cabin. What on earth was she doing here?

  He’d certainly reminded himself and the Lord of his promise to keep his distance from her, and yet there the woman remained. From his vantage point, she seemed to be in no hurry to leave.

  She pulled an envelope from her apron pocket, took out a piece of paper, and unfolded it, taking care to keep it from flying away as she turned her back to the wind. Head bowed, she studied the paper, then refolded the page, returned it to the envelope, and put it back in her pocket.

  Maybe she’ll understand I want nothing to do with her, and she’ll go home. He stood there a moment longer in hopes of watching her disappear into the thicket, but she never moved.

  Theo grumbled under his breath and set to work on the one chore that seemed appropriate to the moment—demolishing
something.

  With every swing of the sledgehammer, his muscles—and his heart—pulled and twisted. As each piece of wall crumbled and fell, so did his resolve, until he knew he could stand it no longer.

  Listen to her.

  He let the heavy tool fall to the floor and swiped at his brow. What?

  The words had come to him as plain as if someone stood beside him and had whispered in his ear. He looked behind him and to the right and the left. He was alone.

  Listen to her.

  There. He heard it again. “Who’s there?” he called.

  No answer.

  Then, in the depths of his heart, he realized whose voice he’d heard. Goose bumps rose on his arms.

  Just listen.

  Theo leaned against what was left of the wall and shook his head. He was a churchgoing man and a believer in the ever-reaching power of God, but never had the Lord spoken to him in such a clear voice.

  Figured He’d be asking for the last thing Theo wanted to do.

  Arguing with the Creator of the universe seemed pointless, but obedience felt even less logical. What could that silly girl have to tell him that he didn’t already know?

  Plenty.

  Theo straightened his back and set his jaw. If he must do as he was told, at least he could try and make one last deal.

  All right, Lord, You win. If she’s still out there, I’ll hear her out. Remember, though, You and I made a deal, and I’m supposed to be free to head out of here whenever I wish.

  He paused, thinking the Lord might answer. He didn’t.

  All right, then. If I have a say in things, could You see to her not being there, and we’ll just call this conversation between me and her over before it starts? I’d be much obliged. I promise I’ll listen just like You said next time I see her.

  Once again, God was silent on the subject.

  Whichever way You want it then, Father. I want what You want, or at least I’m trying to.

  Adding a quick amen to his prayer, Theo set off toward the back of the cabin, where a glance out the window showed him the Lord had indeed answered his prayer.

  She was gone.

  No flowing blue skirts or dancing black braid greeted him. No big brown eyes or pretty face to charm him and scare the living daylights out of him all at the same time. Only the woodpile and a skinny orange cat with a bent tail and an ornery look were framed by the window.

  “Well, how about that?”

  Theo couldn’t help it. Right there he threw back his head and laughed out loud. He chuckled like a fool, laughing so hard his side began to ache.

  “Thank You, Jesus,” he shouted to the rafters. “Thank You, thank You, thank You!”

  As he headed back to the front of the cabin with a spring in his step, he began to whistle the closing hymn from last week’s church service. It was a peppy tune, one of those songs that seeps joy all the way down to the bone and causes the toes to tap. He made it all the way to the second stanza before he picked up the sledgehammer and aimed it once more at the remnants of the wall.

  Wood crumbled beneath each blow until bits and pieces of shattered timber littered the floor and decorated his clothing. While he worked, he whistled, giving thanks to God with each stroke of the sledgehammer.

  The job completed, Theo paused to shake the particles from his hair and wipe his brow.

  “Finally. I couldn’t say a thing for all that noise,” came the sweet voice behind him.

  Clothilde Trahan.

  Theo whirled around to see the vision in blue sitting primly on the lone chair in the room. In his astonishment, he dropped the sledgehammer. It landed with a thud on his left foot, and he howled.

  “Of all the—” Theo bit his lip and stared at the menace in blue.

  He looked down at his foot, as much to check the damage as to keep his gaze from meeting hers. While there seemed to be no outward damage, it hurt something awful. No, it throbbed. He’d have a hard time sleeping tonight for sure.

  And it would be a long walk—or rather hobble—home.

  He risked a glance and saw the girl sitting peacefully on the edge of her chair. Something about her calm expression sparked his ire.

  She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. “I’m terribly sorry. I thought you knew I was standing there.”

  “You know, Mademoiselle Trahan, I once had a pretty mare by the name of Stella,” he said through gritted teeth. “Every time I came close to her, she would bite me.” He moved a step closer to the smiling source of irritation. “When I put a saddle on her, she stomped my feet, and when I managed to ride her, she threw me every time.”

  Theo paused to gauge Cleo’s reaction. She gave nothing of her feelings away. He closed the distance between them in three steps and stood towering over her.

  “I finally figured out that every time she and I shared the same space, something bad happened to me.”

  He leaned down to get on eye level, being careful to favor the foot that did not ache. The Trahan woman sat very still and silent. Only her large eyes gave an indication he might be causing her some measure of upset.

  “So,” he said slowly, “the day came when I decided enough was enough. Do you know what I did with that mare?”

  She leaned slightly back, putting some distance between them. “What?”

  “I traded her to a circuit-riding preacher for a can of beans and a new hammer.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s right. Next time I saw that preacher, he tried to return her. Said he was tired of wondering when his next bruise was coming. I gave him back his beans and hammer and sent the horse out to pasture.”

  “Really?”

  “Oui.” He paused to give his message full effect. “You, Mademoiselle Trahan, remind me very much of Stella. Just like that circuit-riding preacher, I wonder where my next bruise is coming from whenever you’re around.”

  For a moment, she seemed to be waiting for the rest of the story. Then she nodded as though understanding dawned. “Merci.”

  What in the world? He shook his head, then gave her a sideways glance. “Excuse me?”

  “That Stella must have been one smart horse. She ended up getting her way after all.” The woman had the audacity to grin. “I appreciate the comparison.”

  ❧

  Cleo watched with smug satisfaction, then remorse, as the big man’s handsome face turned several shades of scarlet. Of course she knew he hadn’t meant to compliment her by comparing her to some ornery horse he used to own.

  She should be ashamed for teasing him. If only she didn’t find it so easy to spark his ire—and so much fun. Unfortunately, her behavior had done nothing to gain his cooperation in her plan.

  Her plan.

  Staring up into Theophile Breaux’s eyes, she almost forgot her plan. Time to make amends.

  “Monsieur Breaux, I’m terribly sorry.” She rose and ducked under his watchful gaze and walked toward the window. A sweet orange cat lounged on the woodpile. She watched it swat at a butterfly and miss. “I know I’ve caused you much distress.”

  “Distress?” He repeated the word. “Now what makes you think that?”

  She waved away his question with a lift of her hand. “No need to spare my feelings. I realize I tend to cause, well, disasters when I’m around you.”

  He said nothing, and she dared not turn to gauge his expression. Instead, she watched the cat yawn and settle in for a nap atop the woodpile, then felt for the letter in her pocket.

  “I’m sorry about causing you to hurt your foot today and for all the other bruises I’ve inflicted.” She turned around slowly. “None was intentional.”

  The carpenter stood in the shadows, arms crossed over his chest. His face showed no sign of emotion. “Never thought they were.”

  “I should get to the reason why I came here.”

  His lips quirked into a wry smile. “There’s a reason?”

  Cleo thought a moment before plunging into an explanation of her plan. “The sooner my u
ncle sees how well I can teach the children, the sooner he will realize he doesn’t need to hire a teacher from that fancy college in New Orleans.”

  When Theophile offered no response, Cleo closed the distance between them to press on with her explanation. “Or maybe he will be so impressed with my abilities that he will send me to the college. Either way, I need your help.”

  He peered down at her with a look of amusement. “Why me? Surely there are other men you can torture, eh?”

  “I’m going to ignore that comment, Monsieur Breaux.” She took a deep breath of dusty air, then tried not to cough. “The time is limited, and I really need you to get busy finishing the schoolhouse before this happens.” She pulled the letter out of her pocket and waved it under the carpenter’s nose. “It came today.”

  Theophile took a step back and shook his head. “Wait a minute. What are you talking about?”

  Unfolding the letter, she thrust it in his direction. “Here, read it for yourself.”

  He waved away the paper and turned to reach for the sledgehammer. “I’m too busy to be trifled with, Mademoiselle Trahan. Allons. Go home to your aunt and uncle.”

  Cleo trotted behind him as he strode into the fresh air. As he stepped off the porch, she followed, fairly running to keep up with his long, hobbled strides.

  “Wait. You don’t understand. You’re the only one who can help me,” she called, yet he kept walking.

  Finally she lunged forward to grasp the carpenter by the elbow. To her surprise, he whirled around, causing her to run into him. Stunned, she reeled back and let go of the letter. It fluttered to the ground, where Theophile retrieved it.

  “Here, now go home.” He tried to place the letter in her hand, but she refused to take it.

  “Just read the letter,” she said as she tested her balance and straightened her apron. “Then maybe you’ll understand why I need your help.”

  He carried the letter like it might burn him, barely touching the edges of the paper with his thumb and forefinger as he held it at arm’s length.