Bayou Born (Fleur de Lis Series) (13 page)

“Maybe later. Music?”

“No stereo, yet. Bobbie, my friend doing the work, is still working on that. Hence the reason for the missing back seat.”

They drove in silence for a while. He slowed to make a turn onto a two-lane blacktop with a thirty-five mile-per-hour speed limit.

“The fields are larger the farther we get from town. Mostly soybeans and corn,” he explained. “Not much different than Mississippi, I guess. Except, we don’t grow much cotton in Florida.”

They passed a few houses where only rooftops were visible. Hedges and trees offered privacy and protection from rumbling traffic. As they drove, the scenery changed from wide-open fields to acres of densely planted pines waiting for harvest and marked for the pulp mills in Jacksonville. He caught whiffs of freshly mown grass. He did breathe easier in country air. The tension ratcheted tight in his body began to unwind.

“It smells different here,” Branna said. “No hints of brackish water, like at home.”

She reached her hand out of the window, as if trying to catch the wind. Her eyes were closed, though a half-grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. The rigidness she’d exuded after the incident at the bar had disappeared, and with it went much of her high-maintenance demeanor. Relaxed, she was feminine and too appealing.

His body responded. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. What he’d hoped would be a fun night with Branna might challenge all his restraint. The tension that had unwound—Branna just sent soaring.

How long had it been since he’d taken a woman for a drive for no reason other than to explore the countryside? Probably not since high school. Back before Lakeview even had a movie theater. Back when a Saturday night date meant bowling at an alley with only five lanes, and then making out by the Ichetucknee River. Back before Caroline.

“What type of music do you like?” Branna asked, her hands moving to her lap. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Do you mean, if I were stranded on a desert island and could have only one CD, what would it be?”

“Well, let’s go with that.”

“Something jazzy with blues. What about you?”

“Classical.”

“Ahh.”

Branna turned in her seat and faced him. “Ahh—what?”

“It makes sense. You look like the classical-music type.”

“You are beginning to annoy me, Dr. Newbern. I’m getting a little tired of hearing that I’m some sort of a type. Like you’ve figured me out by pigeonholing me into nice neat categories. Is that what type you are? A pigeon-holer?”

He shrugged. “Never thought about it before. Don’t you ever look at someone and size them up? By looking at them, you know exactly their nature. Maybe even their character.” His guard edged back up. Of course she did. She had done that with him the first time they met. She still hadn’t put two-and-two together to realize he was the same redneck she’d met at the Victorian.

“I probably do, but I try hard not to.”

Now he’d hurt her feelings. “Didn’t mean to offend you. But let’s try a different approach. Can you guess what type of music I grew up on?”

Branna rolled her eyes as if she thought the question were ridiculous, or ridiculously simple. He only had to wait for a second for her answer.

“Country, of course.”

“Nope.”

“Country and Western? Is that what they called it way back when?”

“Wrong.”

“Acid Rock? Heavy Metal?”

“Church hymns.”

“You only listened to hymns?” she asked. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

“I grew up singing in church. Not just with the choir. I sang at weddings when I was young.”

“Hymns. Really? You make it sound like you’re so old. How old are you?”

Ahead, a caution light flashed stabs of yellow signaling a junction crossroad. Not even a town, just a collection of a half-a-dozen stores.

“See the flashing sign up there? Beyond that caution light is where we’re headed.” He pointed to the spot down the road.

“Are you changing the subject?”

“The subject being what?” he asked.

“Age. How old are you?”

He shook his head. “Are you sure you were raised in the south?”

“Of course,” she snapped. “I’m as ‘true-blue southern belle’ as they come. Have the genealogy to prove it. Why?”

“If I tell you how old I am, are you going to tell me your age? You know a gentleman can never ask a lady about that.”

Branna put her head back and laughed. Her shoulders shook as she continued to giggle. What had she found so funny?

“You are indeed old south, Dr. Newbern. You never ask a lady over the age of thirty how old she is. Under thirty, you have to make sure she’s a lady first. That’s the new rule.”

“And of the two, which one are you?”

Glancing at her, he caught her narrowed eyes aimed at him. “You’re the expert at types. You tell me, Professor.”

He ignored her challenge as he pulled onto the gravel parking lot. Old telephone poles served as markers on the ground, roughing out the lot where spring weeds grew through the rocks. A few cars were there, but mostly pickups filled the spaces. He parked far away from the other vehicles. It would ruin his night if he came back to find a drunk had marred his restored baby. When he started to roll up his window, Branna did the same.

“Thanks,” he said. “Nothing worse than coming back to a car full of bugs.”

He started to step out of the car, but Branna’s touch stopped him. His arm pulsed hot in that spot.

“Exactly, where are we?”

Was that fear he read in her eyes?

Chapter 12

Warily, Branna glanced around as she carefully navigated the gravel lot. What had she gotten herself into?

“It’s all part of the country attraction.” James sounded smug.

The long building with faded gray siding had no windows. Old metal signs nailed to the exterior advertised Cocoa Cola, John Deere, Skoal, and Sunbeam Bread. A low-slung overhang protected a weather-worn wooden deck that surrounded the building. But for vehicles in the mangy looking parking lot out back, the place looked deserted against the backdrop of open countryside.

She followed James around the corner, picking her way in heels and trying not to turn her ankle, to what she guessed was probably the front side of the building since it faced the road. Worn wooden handles blended into the siding’s seams, unless up close, she would have never known there were double doors there. “Tin” had been carved into one, “Lizzie” into the other. Even before James pulled on the door, she heard the throbbing music as much as she felt it.

“After you,” James said. Then, he opened the door.

Music assaulted her. She flinched, but stepped across the threshold and into a small town honky-tonk. The band members wore boots, t-shirts with a band logo, cowboy hats, and twanged chords southern rock-n-roll style. The yeastiness of beer and hot oil popping corn scented the air. A step away from the front door, a burly guy—no one could mistake him for anything but a bouncer, dressed in black boots, black jeans, and a black hat—shook James’ hand, and then he rose from a barstool and pulled James into a bear-hug as though they were long lost brothers.

“Branna, this is Clyde,” James shouted. She managed to hear him over the deafening music.

Clyde reached out and took her hand. She wanted to step away; it wasn’t often she encountered someone so physically intimidating. He was the definition of a “brick wall,” a tall one. Clyde held her hand lightly as though it was something quite delicate, and for a moment she thought he might kiss it. Instead, he grabbed a rubber stamp, turned her wrist and branded the inside. Black ink stained her pale skin in the shape of horseshoe. She blinked and craned her neck to look up. Crystal blue eyes looked back at her. Clear and smiling.

“Charmed,” Clyde said, and then winked.

Speechless, she let James usher her away, but not before she turned to catch another glimpse of the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

James located two stools at the end of a horseshoe shaped bar. She took the offered stool next to the wall, all the while wondering if her eyes were playing tricks. Was the blue of Clyde’s eyes contact enhanced? She’d never seen a woman swoon, except in the movies, but she’d bet Clyde had a time or two or three, like whenever he turned those startling eyes on a woman.

A bartender laid down cocktail napkins in front of her and James. “What’ll it be for you, James, and the lady?”

She nudged James with her elbow. “Guess that answers your question from earlier. I’m a lady.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

The bartender looked confused.

“Branna, this is Dale. Dale, meet Lady Branna.”

Dale raised an eyebrow, clearly unsure if James was serious or not.

“Lady Branna, what’ll ya have?” Dale asked as he popped the cap on a longneck beer bottle and handed it to James.

“I’m not sure yet. Give me a minute, please.”

Uneasiness cramped her shoulders. This was exactly the sort of place she never dared go. The kind of place Biloxi and Camilla would sneak into back when they were in high school. Even when she was old enough to drink, she had never entered a “Tin Lizzie.” In Bayou Petite, the news of her in a honky-tonk would have reached her parents’ ears before she arrived home. As a child, she always hated the long lectures on decorum. The ones about how she had a greater responsibility to set a good example because she was the next Keeper. Therefore, always following the dictates of what was expected had made her life easier. She remained the proverbial good girl. Appearances meant everything.

But this wasn’t Bayou Petite. No one knew her here. And better still, no one here cared whether or not she would be the next Fleur de Lis Keeper.

“Tequila!” In her mind, she shouted the word and did a hip-swinging, “ole,” but the word never crossed her lips. “How ’bout a margarita on the rocks?” That would be safe. She wasn’t brave enough to do tequila shots. Maybe she would try just one?

“Dale, a margarita for Lady Branna. Use the good stuff,” James advised, then waved to a couple on the dance floor.

“Do you know
everyone
?” Branna asked.

James leaned close. His hand rested on her forearm. A delightful tingle shot up her arm. They were almost cheek-to-cheek when he whispered in her ear, “After thirty-plus years, don’t you think I should?”

The warmth of his breath caressed her ear and caused a shiver to slide down her neck. His words barely registered in her brain. Had the world stopped moving? For a second, she imagined he wanted to kiss her. She held her breath and closed her eyes. But coolness touched her skin where his warm hand had been. A curl of disappointment formed in her stomach when he leaned away. Her cheeks heated from a flush. The fact that she had wanted James to kiss left her fighting embarrassment.

Dale delivered a large, tall-stemmed, globe-shaped, salt-rimmed glass with slices of lime bobbing in pale green liquid. It was the interruption she needed to pull herself together. She would die if James discovered her secret thoughts. She did want to kiss him. And, maybe after some margarita fortification, she just might.

“This is big enough for four people to share.”

She eyed it cautiously, tasted the salt on rim with the tip of her tongue, and then drew liquid up through a straw. James looked on with obvious amusement. She took several sips, but the liquid level in the glass appeared to remain the same. At this rate, she’d be there all night if she ever expected to finish the drink.

Swiveling on her bar stool, she rested the back of her head against the wall. The corner seat provided a panoramic view of the honky-tonk, and it gave her a sense of protection. No one could sneak up behind her. She didn’t recognize a single face. Not that she would. However, people watching was fun. Drumming her hands on her thighs to rhythm of the band’s bass guitar, she allowed the music to wash over her.

“Let’s dance.”

Before she could stop him, James grabbed her purse and handed it to Dale, who put it behind the bar. “Save our seats,” he told the bartender, laying a ten-dollar bill on the counter. He tugged on her hand and pulled her off the raised chair. She almost lost her balance. Then, they wound their way around through the tables to the dance floor.

The band announced the next song was the last one of the set. They wanted everyone out on the floor or they might not return after their break. The crowd roared when the guitarist picked the first strands of
Sweet Home Alabama.
Anyone not on the dance floor stood and cheered. Some banged bottles on the tabletops in time to the beat. The raucousness shot adrenaline through her body. If she’d been at the top of the Empire State Building, she’d swear she could jump and fly.

He never let go of her. There was barely room to sway together, let alone dance, which protected his feet from another beating like they endured last night. She tingled all over from the throb of the music and from being in James’ arms. The energy of the crowd swirled around her, giving her the sensation of rising click-by-click, climbing the up-side of a rollercoaster’s hill. Giddiness washed over her as if she’d opened a door and stepped through to Never Never Land. A feeling of being completely alive.

The band continued playing the song, raising the pace of the frenzied crowd. She’d swear every single person in the room was moving their body someway. After a drum solo and a final guitar lick, the band bowed and quickly departed from the stage, leaving the crowd staring at the spot where they’d been.