A Time To Keep

The cell phone resting near his right hand rang a distinctive ring. Without glancing at the display he knew who’d dialed his number. He counted six rings before the voice-mail feature activated. Then he picked up the telephone, deleted the message, and settled back to spend the night on the hammock.

There had been a time when he couldn’t wait to talk to Deandrea Tate. But that was before he’d courted and married her. But everything changed eighteen months into their marriage when he came home and found another man in bed with his wife. They stopped talking and rage and acrimony surfaced as he filed for divorce. Now, there was nothing his ex-wife had to say that he wanted or needed to hear. He’d given Deandrea the monstrosity of a house she’d hounded him to buy and everything in it as a settlement—a house and furnishings she sold less than six months after their divorce. She’d called because she probably needed money. Well, he’d given her all that he had, and then some.

Shiloh Harper wasn’t the same man Deandrea married. She was now his past, and he had made it a practice not to dwell on what was, but prepare for what was to come.

* * *

Gwen opened her eyes, totally disoriented, her clothes pasted to her moist body. She stared up through the gauzy netting at the whirling blades of a ceiling fan. Within seconds she realized where she was, and recalled what had happened since she’d crossed the boundary into Bayou Teche.

She’d gotten stuck in a mud bank, was rescued by the police, surveyed the hot, musty, dusty interior of the house that was now her home, and instead of sleeping at Bon Temps was forced to spend the night at a local boardinghouse.

Sitting up and getting off the bed, Gwen made her way barefoot over to the smallest of her three pieces of luggage. Shiloh had carried all three bags in one trip while it had taken her two trips from her top floor apartment to bring them down to her car. Opening the bag, she withdrew a case with her cosmetics, and walked into the bathroom.

Half an hour later, she emerged from the bathroom, refreshed by a lukewarm shower. Turning off the table lamps, she parted the sheer netting, slipped under a crisp floral sheet, and within minutes went back to sleep.

CHAPTER 3

Gwen woke up ravenous. Rolling over, she reached for her watch on the bedside table. It was 11:20, and she did not want to do anything or make any decision until she’d eaten. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood up and headed for the bathroom.

Despite the growling sounds coming from her belly, Gwen lingered under the spray of the shower to wash and condition her hair. It was half past twelve when she descended the staircase and walked into the boardinghouse lobby. The expansive area was filled with wicker love seats and chairs cradling colorful floral cushions. An elderly woman with long, graying red hair stood behind the counter sorting mail.

Her head came up and she smiled at Gwen. “Bonjour, Miss Taylor. I’m Angelique Jessup. My nephew told me that Shiloh brought you in last night.”

Clutching her purse to her middle, Gwen hoped to muffle the sound of her growling belly. She wondered what else Shiloh had told Willie Jessup about her. Had he disclosed that she was now the new owner of Bon Temps? She also noticed that the older woman hadn’t referred to Shiloh as Sheriff Harper.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Jessup. Perhaps you can tell me where I can get something to eat?”

“You missed breakfast, and we don’t serve supper until six, so the only place open for lunch is the Outlaw.”

Gwen groaned inwardly. “How far is it from here?”

Gesturing with a clawlike fingernail, Angelique said, “When you go out the door, turn to your right and walk toward the water. There you’ll meet someone who’ll take you across to the Outlaw.”

She went completely still before her eyes widened. A boat? Gwen blinked once. “I have to take a boat across?”

Angelique nodded slowly. “You can’t drive because after years of wrangling, the state finally gave us the money to repair the road on the east side of the parish. It will be closed for at least three months, so the only way to get to the Outlaw is by boat.”

“How long will that take?”

“About ten minutes. As soon as you clear a sandbar you’ll see the restaurant.”

Gwen closed her eyes briefly as a spasm tightened her stomach muscles, leaving her light-headed. “Thank you.”

“Bon appetit,” the older woman called out as Gwen headed toward the door.

“Merci,” she said, deciding it was time to begin practicing her limited French. She’d moved to southern Louisiana, the geographical heart of Acadiana, a region where she would hear the authentic dialect of the Acadian people.

The boardinghouse was situated along a block of attached two-story structures with decorative grillwork balconies representative of the region. The facades were shaded by rows of giant oak trees rising more than a hundred feet and trailing a yard of moss below their sweeping branches.

Everything about the bayou was so different from Boston: the architecture, topography, wildlife, flora, climate and people. Gwen felt as if she were being seduced, pulled into an atmosphere from which she did not want to escape. The cloying fragrance of flowering magnolia, honeysuckle and roses mingled with the distinctive smell of the water as she walked in the direction Angelique Jessup had indicated. The heat of the semitropical sun and humidity caressed her exposed skin under the lace-trimmed camisole she’d pulled on over a pair of worn jeans that she should’ve discarded when she emptied her closets.

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.

He watched her looking around the restaurant for an empty table. It was lunchtime and the Outlaw was crowded with local fishermen who’d gone out in their boats before sunrise, returning hours later with their nets and traps filled with shrimp, oysters, crabs and crayfish.

Shiloh pushed back his chair at the same time François Broussard rose to his feet, heading toward Gwen. François, a direct descendant of the Acadian exiles who came from Canada to Louisiana in the mid 18th-century, had become the parish’s wealthiest and most eligible bachelor. His much sought-after photographs and paintings were exhibited in museums and galleries throughout the country. Swarthy, silver-haired, urbane and jaded, he used his charm to seduce women as if it were his inalienable right.

Shiloh and François had grown up as friends, attended the same high school, dated some of the same girls, and François was one of several men Deandrea had slept with after she’d become Mrs. Shiloh Harper. To say there was bad blood between the two men was an understatement.

Shiloh made his way to Gwen seconds before François. Reaching for her hand, he held it firmly within his grasp, kissing the back of it. “I’d almost given up hope that you’d come,” he said in a quiet voice, as she stared up at him. No doubt she was as shocked to see him, as he was she.

Gwen recognized Shiloh’s voice before she realized he was out of uniform. Today he wore a light blue chambray shirt over a pair of jeans. His eyes were a deep moss green, the color contrasting his rich, sun-browned face. Her gaze shifted from the sheriff to the other man staring at her with an expectant expression. He had rakishly long silver hair that framed an unlined slender face with electric blue eyes and delicate features, which were better suited for a woman.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lady?” François asked Shiloh in a Creole dialect.

Tightening his hold on Gwen’s fingers, he pulled her hand into the bend of his elbow. A slow smile softened his mouth. “Step off, Broussard, before I kick your ass,” he threatened quietly in the same dialect. Turning his attention to Gwen, he gave her a wide grin. “Are you hungry, darling?”

“Starved,” she answered truthfully, although completely confused by the interaction between Shiloh and the man he’d called Broussard.

The conversations that had stopped when Gwen walked into the Outlaw started up again. Surreptitious stares were directed at François as he retreated to his table in a corner. Most of the men were silently applauding Shiloh’s attempt to thwart another conquest for the arrogant, egotistical artist.

Shiloh led Gwen back to his table, pulled out a chair for her, then sat opposite her. His breathing deepened. The woman sitting only a few feet away was so ardently feminine that he found drawing a normal breath difficult.

Gwen forced herself not to stare at Shiloh’s sandwich. Shredded lettuce, thinly sliced tomatoes, and a pile of golden fried oysters and shrimp were nestled between two slices of toasted French bread. A smaller plate held a cup of tartar sauce and lemon wedges.

Leaning over the small round table, she said, “Why did you call me darling?”

Ignoring her query, Shiloh picked up the plates and placed them in front of her. “You said you were starved, so please eat.”

Her dark eyes widened. “I can’t take your lunch.”

“Yes, you can.” Pushing back from the table, he stood up. “I’ll order another one.”

Gwen watched Shiloh’s broad shoulders under the crisp shirt as he made his way toward the back of the restaurant and disappeared through a pair of swinging louvered doors. He looked equally good in or out of uniform, in dim or bright light, coming or going. Whoever claimed Shiloh Harper as boyfriend, fiancé or husband was one lucky woman. The word darling had rolled off his tongue as smoothly as watered silk. Some of the men she’d known thought calling her baby was the ultimate endearment. She’d permitted only one man to call her baby, and that man was Millard Taylor—her father, because he’d declared emphatically that she would always be his baby girl regardless of her age.

She squeezed a wedge of lemon over the mound of fried seafood, followed with a spoonful of tartar sauce, before topping it off with a small amount of hot pepper sauce. She picked up the sandwich and took a bite. A myriad of flavors tantalized her palate as she chewed slowly. Never had she eaten something so incredibly delectable. The lightly battered oysters and shrimp, the sweetness of the tartar sauce, and the sharp pungent bite of the hot sauce created a bouquet of flavors that literally exploded in her mouth. She’d eaten half of the sandwich before Shiloh returned with another one.

He sat down, smiling. “Do you like it?”

Dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Gwen sighed and closed her eyes. “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven when I took the first bite,” she said when she opened her eyes to meet his amused stare.

“You’ve never eaten a po’boy?”

She went completely still. “A what?”

“Po’boy.”

Gwen blinked once. “Don’t you mean poor boy?”

Shiloh was hard pressed not to laugh. “It is not poor,” he said, enunciating the r. “It’s po’ like in Edgar Allan Poe.”

A hint of a smile crinkled her eyes at the corners. “But wouldn’t it sound better to say poor rather than po’?”

Shiloh lathered tartar sauce over his po’boy, then added a liberal amount of pepper sauce. “It takes too long to say poor. Po’ works for us down here.”

Gwen reached for the coffee mug and took a swallow. It was strong and slightly bitter. She peered at Shiloh over the rim. “You all talk funny down here.”

He eased the mug from her hand, smiling. “It’s not you all, but y’all, Gwen.”

“Hey, you’re drinking my coffee,” she said in protest.

Shiloh took a long swallow before refilling the mug. His eyes narrowed. “I offered you my po’boy, not my coffee.”

Leaning back on her chair, she regarded him for a long moment. “Silly me for not remembering you’re a cop.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Ignoring his defensive tone, Gwen reached over and patted the back of his hand. “Isn’t drinking coffee and eating doughnuts a prerequisite for becoming a police officer?”

Shiloh’s left eyebrow lifted slightly. “So, Miss Beantown, you’ve got cop jokes. For your information we don’t eat doughnuts down here.”

“What do you eat?”

“Beignets.”

It was Gwen’s turned to lift her eyebrows. “I’ve never eaten one.”

“You po’ deprived little thang,” he teased. “There’s nothing better for breakfast than café au lait and beignets.”

Gwen wanted to laugh at his tortured expression. She hadn’t known Shiloh Harper twenty-four hours, yet there was something about him that made her feel comfortable enough to verbally spar with him. There was something about him that said he was so very sure of himself and his rightful place in the universe.

“I’ll make certain to sample one.”

Shiloh rested his chin on a fisted hand. “I bet you won’t be able to eat just one.”

She assumed the same gesture, smiling. “That’s one bet you’re going to lose.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m very, very disciplined.”

“Don’t you mean anal?”

Her dark eyes widened. “No!”

The beginnings of a smile touched Shiloh’s mouth. “I think you protest too much.”

“I’m not as anal as I am focused.”

He lowered his hand without taking his gaze off the face of the woman sharing his table. He liked Gwen—her face, softly curving body, quick mind and witty repartee.

“What are you focused on now?”

“Fixing up my new home.”

“And after that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he repeated. “What about a job?”

Gwen’s body stiffened in shock that caused the words to wedge in her throat. “Are you interrogating me, Sheriff Harper?” she asked, recovering her voice.

“Of course not, Miss Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor.”

A wave of heat swept up from her chest to her cheeks. “There’s no need to call me by my government name,” she said, frowning.

Shiloh threw back his head, laughing loudly, as everyone in the restaurant turned in his direction. Most couldn’t remember the last time they’d heard Shiloh Harper laugh aloud. It was before his divorce and before Sheriff Virgil Harper died in the line of duty. Suddenly aware that he’d attracted attention, he glared at those staring at him and Gwen. One by one they turned away and went back to whatever it was they were discussing.

Gwen took another bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. Even if she didn’t tell Shiloh of her plans, there was no doubt he would soon find out.

“I’m a journalist.”

His sober expression did not change. “Radio, television, or print?”

“Print.”

“Perhaps Nash McGraw could use you. He’s the editor-in-chief of the Teche Tribune, and lately he’s been putting out the paper using a skeleton staff.”

“Is it a weekly?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“If you run into him, please let him know that I’m interested in something part-time.”

A hint of a smile crinkled the skin around Shiloh’s eyes. “What else are you interested in?”

A shiver of annoyance raced up her spine and she had to admit that the man sitting across from her was good. He’d befriended her the night before and now had offered her his lunch while subtly interrogating her. She was a new resident, and he was probably intrigued that a single woman from Boston would relocate and take possession of a house sight unseen.

He’d retrieved all of her vital data when he entered her driver’s license in a national DMV database, so if he wanted to check further into her background he could. Did he suspect she’d come to the Louisiana bayou to hide out, or establish a cover for a criminal operation? What the delicious-looking law enforcement officer didn’t know was that she’d come to St. Martin Parish to start over. She wanted to restore Bon Temps to its original magnificence, work for a local newspaper, and if the latter did not materialize, then she would execute her Plan B. She would then apply for a teaching position at a local high school or college.

Shrugging a bare shoulder, she smiled at Shiloh through her lashes. “Not much else.” She opened her handbag, took out a twenty and placed it on the table. “That should cover my lunch.”