Bayou Born (Fleur de Lis Series)
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Bayou Born
by
Linda Joyce
Fleur de Lis Series, Book One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Bayou Born
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Linda Joyce Clements
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
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Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-820-2
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-821-9
Fleur de Lis, Book One
Published in the United States of America
Praise for
BAYOU BORN
“A true southern experience, Cajun style!”
~Kathy L Wheeler, author of Color of Betrayal
~*~
“The bayou isn't the only thing hot and sultry in this sassy romance. Linda Joyce captures all your emotions and tantalizes your taste buds in this saucy southern tale.”
~Claire Croxton, author of Santorini Sunset
~*~
“Family, a little scandal, two people risking their hearts in the name of love, all mixed with Southern charm—this story has it all.”
~Kellie Kamryn, author of Pleasure Island
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the love of my life,
Donald S. Clements
Acknowledgments
Many people helped with the journey of Branna’s story. If I’ve missed someone, my greatest apologies.
Thank you to Mailan Le and Laurie Fickle for enduring the 140,000-word rough draft. To Val, Linda, and Erin from Midwest Romance Writers—Thank you, WCW. Many thanks to M-L Kamberg, my first writing mentor.
My heartfelt thanks go to Jodi’s Pioneers—Claire Croxton, Jan Morrill, Gina Popp, Kathy Wheeler, and Romney Nesbitt were especially helpful.
To Leslie Tentler for guidance in the Virginia Ellis Memorial Critique Workshop. Thank you, Jackie Rodriguez, for your encouragement and the gift of your friendship. It means so much.
To Ally Robertson, my editor, you are a blessing. I pitched
Bayou Bound
, my next novel that The Wild Rose Press will publish, to Ally at OWFI. When Ally offered me a contract on that book, I told her about
Bayou Born
. Several months later, I sent her the completely re-written manuscript. The rest, as they say, is history. I am honored that Ally sees something in my writing, and I sing her praises every day.
In memory of Clara Villaman, thank you for smiling on me.
Chapter 1
Branna Lind sighed and melted into the seat of the Realtor’s car. She sipped sweet tea; its refreshing coolness flowed and revived her sinking spirits. She offered silent prayers of gratitude. One for the drive-thru, two for the break from climbing in and out of the car as they house hunted, and three for her hair.
The car’s air conditioning fluttered her new short style. Though it had shocked Momma, Branna was thankful she’d taken the risk. Given the sheen of perspiration that covered her skin, long hair in May’s humidity would have made the day even more miserable.
She and Meredith were once again in route to tour yet another house in the small, north Florida town. Day three, and into her eighth hour of house hunting in Lakeview, never had she imagined finding a place to live would top the total-drudgery list. The growing number of rejects doubled her despair. Would she find an acceptable house in a town this size? What kind of a hole had she dug herself into this time?
A home had to be special. A place that called to her the moment she walked inside. A place that said she belonged. Like Fleur de Lis, her family’s antebellum home in Mississippi.
“I’ve got one last place to show you today,” Meredith said briskly. “I’m thinking this one might be what you’re looking for.”
Turning to face the window, Branna rolled her eyes. Before pulling up to each property they’d visited, Meredith had raised her hopes with that phrase, only to dash them every time.
“A ranch in a quiet neighborhood. Tree-lined streets. If you’re interested, I’m pretty sure I can manage a lease-to-buy option, which might be the perfect scenario for you.”
“Cozy,” Branna said breathlessly. “That’s all I want.” It had been her mantra from the start of the hunt. Something had to materialize soon, otherwise room 203 at the mom-and-pop motel by the interstate would be her address of record. That wouldn’t look good when she started her new teaching job at the community college.
“Even though you told me that,
cozy
means different things to different people. Each property we’ve looked at had a charm of its own.
You
bring
cozy
to it.” Meredith grinned as though she’d cleverly discovered the answer to the problem.
“Yes, well, you may be right.” Branna tried to keep defensiveness from her tone, certain that the places they’d seen so far fit Meredith’s definition of cozy, but definitely not her own. Besides, any display of rudeness would not accomplish her mission, and she
was
grateful for Meredith’s time.
“This one isn’t far from the center of town and only two blocks from the lovely trail around the lake that you like so much,” Meredith told her.
Branna reflected on the worst offenders. The cold modern condo at the country club could only scream cozy to a felon who missed cinderblock walls. The country house had soaring ceilings. If it had mumbled
cozy
to her, she would’ve have heard it echo, echo, echo, like in the Grand Canyon.
That old yellow Victorian...a truly odd experience. The house, barely a quarter of the size of Fleur de Lis, came with the exact baggage she sought to escape—repairs. No doubt, it had potential to grow into something grand, however, her brain began immediately calculating a list of needed improvements and tracking the
ka-ching
it would take to make them.
And that was after viewing only the outside. Who knew the condition of the interior? She’d live in a popup camper before tackling a project like that.
Though, in fairness to Meredith, that showing had been an unscheduled stop. The battered white pickup in the driveway prompted the Realtor to investigate. The property was one she owned.
While that detour from their planned list of houses was mostly a short pause in the schedule, that momentary hiatus had caused her to pause repeatedly since then. She rubbed her right hand, the one he’d touched. Why did the man with the battered pickup, a man with whom she’d only shared a casual handshake—a guy she wouldn’t know in a line up—keep popping up in her mind?
Would Mr. Rough-Around-the-Edges buy Meredith’s place? If so, did he have a clue about living in chaos? Which was his future if he bought that Victorian. It wouldn’t take a French-Quarter-sidewalk psychic to predict that living in a remodel was madness. There were enough reality shows on TV to prove her point. Calamity was the norm for the duration of any home-improvement project.
A spark of regret nipped her conscience. She’d been rude to him, but not intentionally. Her bad mood was the direct result of her mental comparisons of the Victorian to her family’s old home, which she’d chosen to leave behind...because of a man.
Pickup-guy would never know that her behavior had nothing to do with him personally. Men were the enemy, and he was guilty by association. But still...he plagued her mind.
She sighed. She might not know him on sight, but she’d sure recognize his rust-bucket ride. That was one truck she could spot anywhere, more rust than paint on metal.
Out of politeness, she’d accepted his extended hand when Meredith made introductions, but she refused to make eye contact with the shaggy, good ol’ boy, instead choosing to focus on his old, scuffed work boots.
She stopped short from jerking away when a too-warm sensation surged as their fingers met. He held her hand way too long to be polite, which made her even more uncomfortable, but her good manners had operated on autopilot. After that, she had refused a tour of the inside of house and waited in the car. She wasn’t interested in the house, or the man.
But for some reason, she couldn’t seem to escape from him. What would her therapist make of that?
“We’re almost there, Branna.” Meredith continued northbound on the four-lane, then stopped before making a left turn off the main road. As she crossed the two southbound lanes, a girl darted in front of the car.
“Watch out!” Branna cried.
Meredith slammed on the brakes.
Tires squealed.
An oncoming black car stopped only inches away, avoiding an impact to the passenger side of Meredith’s car, but the terror of the vehicle headed straight at Branna caused her to squeeze her drink cup tightly. The top popped. Brown liquid sloshed and spattered the side of Meredith’s white skirt. The girl in overalls who had put everything into motion raced away, her long brown braids beating against her back.
“Darn kid,” Meredith complained, flicking an ice cube off her lap.
The driver in the black car blew the horn and waved at them to get out of the road.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll have your skirt cleaned, or replace it if it’s stained.” Branna shoved napkins in Meredith’s direction.
“Serves me right for wearing white before Memorial Day.” Meredith sounded disgusted as she cleared the intersection and pulled the car to the side of the road.
Branna chuckled nervously. “It’s not like breaking the rule is a bad omen or anything.”
Except that in her world it was.
G.G. Marie—the G.G. was short for Great Grandmother—would naturally agree with Meredith’s conclusion. White before Memorial Day? Never! G.G. Marie was no different from other southern great grandmothers who stuck to tradition.
However, Branna disagreed. With the first day of summer countable in weeks rather months, she would argue that temperatures outside were the deciding factor of when summer began, rather than a date on a calendar. Though she often disagreed with G.G. Marie, she always counted on the old woman’s wisdom.
“I’m sure the skirt will be fine,” Meredith said calmly as she started to drive again.
“I can understand if you want to change. We could look at this place tomorrow.” Would Meredith take the hint? The shock of the almost-accident frayed her nerves more than she cared to admit.
“We’re so close. And I’ve got a really
good
feeling about this one.”
As much as she wanted to end the search, she had to find a place to live. Weary or not. Besides, good manners dictated that she follow Meredith’s lead. “All right, let’s go see.”
They drove another block before Meredith pulled onto a wide concrete driveway. “Here we are.”
Branna looked up. The cottage looked like something from a Thomas Kincade painting with its sloping roofline, carved shutters, and arched front door. “Interesting.”