Five

You go tell your uncle what you’ve been up to, little girl, or I will,” Theo called after her. “Hurry on now, or I just might get there before you. You wouldn’t want that, now would you, eh?”

Clothilde Trahan just kept on walking at the same leisurely pace, back straight and head up like she was counting the clouds. If he hadn’t seen the high color in her cheeks as she walked away, he would have thought she was out for a Sunday stroll.

Despite the fact she now wore sawdust on her skirt and pine needles in her hair, she was a lady, that one, and according to his mama, raised up to be a godly woman by good people. His only memories of Clothilde Trahan were as a quiet girl forever carrying a book under her arm or hiding in some remote corner at church picnics reading while everyone else went about their foolishness. He had to admit he hadn’t expected back then that she’d grow up to be quite so pretty.

Or spunky.

What was it about the Trahan girl that set his teeth on edge and his heart pumping all at the same time? Joe and his wife were the salt of the earth, and he knew they’d loved and raised that girl like she was their own.

If she’d turned out anything like her Tante Flo, she would make somebody a fine wife someday—once she let go of that nasty habit of sticking her pretty nose where it didn’t belong.

Maybe she ought to go back to carrying a book around. At least then she’d have a place to stick her nose where it wouldn’t get her into trouble.

He watched her disappear into the thicket and gave passing thought to whether she actually went home or stood there spying. From the look on her face when he told her he’d go to Joe, she probably hightailed it back to the house to head him off.

Scared to death, she most likely intended to give her uncle her side of the story before Theo could tell him otherwise. A fat lot of good that would do. The truth of the situation spoke for itself.

A twinge of guilt hit him hard. He shouldn’t have been so rough with her. No, he decided. Served her right. A body ought not hide out like a common criminal and watch people. What in the world was she thinking?

Theo pondered on that a moment. She did have the book learning, and she knew more words than just about anybody he’d ever spoken with—and he’d talked to some really smart people in his day.

Her Tante Flo worked as a teacher way back, so the feisty gal probably got her hankering for it through her kinfolk. Yes, he could see her as a schoolteacher, at least until the little bitty thing ran across a big old bayou boy who didn’t want to learn.

That last thought gave him pause. She already has, you big fool, and she did just fine.

Theo went back to work, taking his aggravation out on the porch steps. In short order, the rotten boards were gone, replaced by salvaged wood from the pile behind the cabin. If only he could pound away his irritation—and his thoughts of Clothilde Trahan—as easily.

❧

The following morning, Theo arrived on Joe’s doorstep to discuss his ideas for the renovations. Flo welcomed him warmly. In short order, she’d hustled him into the kitchen to offer him a plate of eggs, biscuits, and bacon, which he tried and failed to turn down.

“A man’s got to eat well if he’s going to work well,” Flo said.

“Well, I can’t find an argument for that,” he replied.

Joe seconded his statement with a wave of his napkin, then bowed his head to offer a blessing over the food. Fork in hand, Theo added his amen to Joe’s and Flo’s, then reached for the Tabasco sauce and doused everything on his plate. Satisfied he’d upped the temperature with his favorite pepper sauce, he stabbed at the bright yellow eggs and looked beyond the kitchen to the empty parlor.

Funny, here he sat at a family breakfast, and Joe’s niece was nowhere to be found. He chewed on the thought—and the fiery eggs. Both burned as they went down, but only the eggs caused him to shed a tear.

Must be prettying herself up or sleeping late. No, she’s probably hiding somewhere, spying.

He finished the meal and sipped good strong chicory coffee at the big round kitchen table while Flo cleared the table and then made herself scarce.

“Let’s get down to business.” Joe fetched a thick file off the sideboard and began to spread papers out on the table. “Tell me what you’ve decided we need to do.”

Theo explained his ideas, all the while watching for Clothilde. He finally left, wondering where in the world the irritating woman could be.

The next morning and the one after that passed in similar fashion until the habit of starting the day with Joe and his wife fell into a routine. Theo arrived early, discussed the previous day’s progress with Joe, and partook of the best coffee and eggs outside of the ones he had at his mama’s house. Never had he eaten so well or sat so long at one spell.

Each time when he left, he wondered where Clothilde Trahan could be. He also promised himself each night that tomorrow he’d go straight to the building site and forgo the lollygagging at Joe’s table.

Funny how he’d forget his promise every single morning. Funnier still how he figured each day would be the one when Clothilde Trahan finally stopped hiding from him.

❧

Nearly two weeks had passed, and Cleo was getting tired of missing breakfast. She stood in the henhouse with the basket hanging from her elbow. Good thing the hens were laying well.

Surely the Breaux fellow would end this annoying habit of showing up at Tante Flo’s table in time to eat a half-dozen eggs and drink a gallon of coffee before finally leaving. How he could hold so much food and still maintain a lean frame baffled her further.

Must be all that work he did out at the cabin.

Still, why one man sat so long at a breakfast table was beyond her understanding. Uncle Joe did, of course, but he was old—well nigh to forty. One might expect old folks to sit and sip their coffee as if they had nothing better to do all day.

Her thoughts returned to Theophile Breaux. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t informed Uncle Joe about the incident at the cabin. If he knew, Uncle Joe hadn’t let on, and he certainly hadn’t told Tante Flo. Perhaps the rogue had no intention of telling on her after all.

Well, wouldn’t that be an answer to prayer?

Cleo patted her apron pocket where the letter she had written the night before lay hidden. Writing to Uncle Joe’s friend at the teachers’ college in New Orleans had been a risk.

She thought long and hard before resorting to the drastic move of pleading her case to a man whom she barely knew. Surely he would see her side of things when he read her letter. A man fit to run a teachers’ college would obviously recognize a qualified teacher when he read a letter from one. If he wouldn’t let her into the college, maybe he would recommend her to Uncle Joe as capable of teaching the children of Latagnier.

The sound of voices across the yard caught her attention. She watched Theophile Breaux emerge from the shadows and take the front porch steps two at a time. Uncle Joe followed him out onto the porch, shouted a good-bye, and then disappeared back inside.

From experience, she knew her uncle would return to the kitchen table to work on his figuring a bit more, then take the big folder over to the church to show the reverend. After all, it was Friday.

Time to implement the plan she’d been working on all week. Patience was not her strong suit, but then the Lord must have known when He made her that she’d have trouble with waiting Why He chose to give her that peculiarity was something she planned to ask when she met Him someday. In the meantime, she prayed much and failed some.

This week, however, she’d managed to stick to her plan and keep her peace while she ticked off the days on the calendar. Around about Wednesday afternoon, she hadn’t thought Friday would ever come, but it had.

And somehow she’d made it through the week.

Cleo plucked the last egg from the straw and settled it atop the basket. With care, she made her way out of the henhouse and up the back steps to the kitchen.

Uncle Joe sat at the table, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose and the ledger before him just as she expected. He looked up from his scribbling when the door closed.

“You been working hard this morning, cher?” he asked before returning his attention to his figures.

She slipped behind him to leave the egg basket on the sideboard. “Yes, sir.”

He stopped writing and began tapping the tabletop with his fingers. A sure sign something was on his mind. “Seems like all that work would make a body hungry.”

Cleo cringed. Enduring scrutiny from Uncle Joe hadn’t been part of her expectations. “I suppose.”

Had he somehow discovered that she planned to visit the postmaster on her trip to deliver eggs this morning? She cast a glance from beneath lowered lashes and found he’d gone back to his numbers.

“You want some breakfast?” he asked as he tallied a column and wrote a figure beneath it.

In truth, she did, but sitting across the table from Uncle Joe and enduring his cross-examination did not set well. An empty stomach suited her much better.

Her uncle whirled around to face her. “Any particular reason you’re avoiding that young man?”

The swift change of subject startled Cleo and sent her thoughts spinning. “No, sir.” She stuffed her hands into her apron pockets, then felt a pang of guilt when her fingers came into contact with her letter.

“You’re not going to forget my penny candy, are you?”

Her uncle’s sweet tooth was a secret to no one, but every week he felt the need to remind Cleo to fetch his favorite treat. Cleo smiled despite the worry gnawing in her gut. How she loved the familiar routine of life in Latagnier.

He stood and reached into his pocket. “Bring your aunt back one of those fancy magazines, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” She accepted the coins he held out, then dropped them in her pocket alongside the letter.

Uncle Joe returned to his seat and continued to stare, all the while drumming a furious rhythm on the table. Another moment under his scrutiny and she’d spill her plan for sure.

“That you, honey?” Tante Flo called from the parlor.

Cleo suppressed a sigh of relief. “Yes, ma’am. It’s me.”

Tante Flo met her in the hallway, a dish towel in her hand. “You going to fetch eggs to folks?” she asked as she smoothed back iron gray hair.

“Yes’m.” Cleo looked away. “Did you need something in town?”

Tossing the dish towel onto her shoulder, Tante Flo peered into Cleo’s face, then pulled a letter from her apron pocket. “Mail this one with yours.”

For a second Cleo could only stare at her aunt. When the words came, they emerged as more of a string of sounds rather than an actual statement of some sort. Finally, she gathered her wits enough to construct an entire sentence and speak it aloud. “How did you know?”

Tante smiled. “I didn’t.” She took Cleo by the elbow and led her outside. “Now don’t you set your cap to worrying. I was young once, too, and I know a natural-born teacher when I see one. I just thought I ought to let that fellow at the teachers’ college know, too.”

Cleo opened her mouth to say thanks but once again found the words had escaped. She wrapped Tante Flo in a tight hug and held on until the tears ceased.

“Hush now and dry your eyes or your uncle’s going to wonder what we hens are cackling about.” She lifted the hem of her apron to dab at Cleo’s tears. “Now, here’s how we are going to handle this. I’ll talk to your uncle, eventually, and until I do, you will keep your peace on the subject. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to pray, too.”

“I will, and I promise.” Cleo kissed and hugged her aunt one more time before fairly floating to town to post not one letter to the teachers’ college but two. After filling her pocket with penny candy for Uncle Joe and tucking a Godey’s Lady’s Book under her arm, she headed for home on the path that wound beside the black bayou water.

Anyone who didn’t know better would think the bayou looked like a good place to spend a warm spring afternoon. Cleo knew differently, though, especially after the snake episode of last week.

She shuddered at the reminder of the black monster. While growing up on the bayou meant dealing with the ever-present snake population, she’d never seen one as large as that one.

Thoughts of the snake brought forth thoughts of the man who had dispatched it to its doom. Theophile Breaux. Now there was a man who. . .

Who what?

Before she could complete the thought, the sound of hammering echoed across the quiet of the bayou. Cleo stopped short and looked around. Had she strayed so close to the cabin that she could hear the sound of the Breaux fellow as he went about making repairs?

The familiar landmarks told her she had. Strange, but she hadn’t intended to go this direction.

“Well, as long as I’m nearby, perhaps it would be a good time to see what sort of progress is being made on my school.”

My school. She rolled the thought across her brain. Yes, that did sound good. And with Tante Flo’s endorsement, she all but had the job sewed up.

Smiling as she headed toward the school, she toyed with the idea of letting the big Cajun know that she was the one for whom the repairs were being made. Wouldn’t that just irritate him to no end?

As she reached the clearing, she cast a quick glance down at the spot where Theophile Breaux had saved her from the giant cottonmouth. Instantly she felt ashamed of herself. He really wasn’t such a bad sort, just a bit grumpy and rough around the edges.

Of course, the last time she’d seen him, he’d just pulled his foot out of the steps. She looked up to see him perched atop a ladder, hammering a nail into the eaves of the cabin.

Perhaps she’d best alert him to her presence so she wouldn’t startle him. A shout of greeting would probably take him by surprise, so she decided to whistle.