Byrd's Desire (3 page)

Rub salt into my sore wounds.
  “Yes, and turned in the key night before last.”

“Do you think you’ll go back to
Natchitoches later?”

She didn’t.  That chapter of her life had ended but Celia told her mother, “Maybe, I don’t know.  A year’s a long time.”  Her mother chuckled, her laugh dry and breathless.
“You’re young—for me, a year is the blink of an eye.  You need to think about what you’ll want to do, where you want to go, after Angelique gets home.”

Celia mentally counted to ten.  Her
maman always talked about Christmas in July, shopped for it in August, planned Easter dresses in February, and added a year to someone’s age long before they celebrated their next birthday.  She hadn’t been house-sitting for twenty-four hours yet and Mama thought she should figure out her plans for next year.  Emotions under control, she said, “Yes, and I will.  But I’m here and I need to get familiar with everything.  I’m going to the supermarket in a little while.”

“It must be in town.  I looked up Angie’s place on Google
Earth and its way out in the boondocks.” 
Still nosy, too.  “
Yes, it’s in Sallisaw.  I’ll call you soon, Mama.” And she would, but on her terms, not her mother’s.  Celia ended the call and turned off the phone to begin the day.  For now, she possessed possibilities and time.  She could make the best of things if she tried.

Chapter Three

When she’d passed through
Sallisaw en route to the ranch, Celia hadn’t given it much notice.  She’d gobbled down a quick sandwich before finishing her journey but her first impression had been “just another small town.”  Things appeared different now as she headed into Sallisaw with a full gas tank.  Chuck, as promised, had delivered her car to the front drive.

Celia
realized that the highway cutting through town from east to west had once been historic Route 66, the highway made legendary in song, film, and memory.  The older brick buildings lining both sides of the wide street had character and vintage style.  Some boasted an almost frontier town appearance and all resonated with small-town appeal.  The main drag wasn’t named Main Street either, but Cherokee Avenue.  The small businesses located along Cherokee Avenue were mostly mom-and-pop stores, including a beauty parlor, flea market, and offices.  Enchanted, she drove around the downtown district and found the small, plain county courthouse and city hall.

Celia got h
er bearings and recognized the busy thoroughfare where she’d bought her lunch the day before as South Kerr Avenue.  Most of the modern additions to the town—the motels, the discount chains, the fast food restaurants, and convenience stores—clustered between Cherokee Avenue and I-40, south of town.   If Sallisaw wasn’t a crossroads for the interstate, Highway 64 and Highway 59, she doubted most of the national chains would’ve located here, but the town had some bustle and she liked that.

She found an IGA store and chose
to stop there rather than the giant Wal-Mart for her shopping.  Celia parked in the lot and joined the old ladies in flowered blouses, the harried young moms with carts loaded down with kids, and the others.   After a quick breakfast, she explored the basement and found the pantry.  Its well-stocked shelves boasted plenty of food but she’d made a list anyway.  She planned to make a shrimp étouffé for her evening meal and maybe boudin sausage in a day or so.  Celia picked up the ingredients, chose a few things to suit her taste and not Angie’s, then checked out.  The supermarket carried everything but the natural pork casings for the sausage so she asked the checker if he knew where she might find some.  He directed her to a smaller store and suggested she might visit the Oklahoma Tourism Center out near the interstate. “If you’re new here, they can give you all kinds of stuff about Sallisaw and the area,” he told her. “You know, Sequoyah lived here and his cabin still stands, north of town.  This here is the stompin’ grounds for Pretty Boy Floyd too, and he’s buried not too far up at Akin.  Lots to do and see ‘round here.”

Celia nodded and flashed him a smile.  “Thank you.  I might just do that.”

“I can tell you ain’t from Oklahoma,” he said in a flat twang. “You’re a Southern girl?”

Was it so obvious? Her gumbo voice must give her away. “I am,
Louisiana born and raised.” She stretched out the name of her home state to Loo-zee-anna. “Cajun, too.”

“I figured.” He grinned. “Say, are you kin to Miz Broussard from out the ranch? She talks like you do.”

So much for any chance at anonymity or keeping a low profile
, Celia thought.  “Yes, she’s my cousin.”

“Fifty-five, thirty seven,” he said
, and she paid him. “You’re staying out at the ranch, then.  What’s the name of it?”

“The French Quarter,” Celia said.  “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he called. “Welcome to Sallisaw and Sequoyah County.”

She toted her own bags out to the car and mindful of the heat, she parked them in the backseat.  Although she’d meant to head back to the ranch, she decided on a whim to check out the tourism center.  She located it without any difficulty and spent ten minutes gathering up brochures and booklets about the area.  “Take the main
Oklahoma guide too, honey,” the elderly woman behind the counter said. “How about a map, too?” Celia accepted it with thanks and waited for the questions, but none came.  Instead, the woman craned her head for a better view through the window and said, “Looks like it may storm again later.  You’d better mind the weather in case it turns ugly.  Hope you’ve got a basement.”

“I do, thanks.” Celia appreciated the kindness but she hoped it would.  She craved the power and energy a storm brought.  In some strange way, she thought she needed it to calm some uneasiness in her soul.  Weird, but she couldn’t help how she felt.

****

As
Celia backtracked through Sallisaw, she realized that although it lacked the French influence she’d grown up with, it was a pretty enough town. 
It’s not like I’m moving here to stay, anyway.  It’ll do for the year.
  What came after, she’d decide then.  As she headed out of town Celia noted a thin line of clouds on the far western horizon. 
Must’ve been what the woman at the tourism center saw to predict bad weather, I guess. 
Maybe it would storm later.   At the house, she carried her purchases inside and put everything away.  Celia made a small salad and ate it, then wondered what the hell she’d do for the rest of the day.

She
could explore the house and wander around the property but when she stepped outside, the heat hit her in the face, heavy and humid.  Maybe she would do that another day.
 
She could start cooking, but the hours until supper time loomed long and empty.  Celia stared down at the lake, pond, or whatever it was.  Pond, she decided, too small to be called a lake. Willows grew around the edges and the water beckoned her. 
It might be cooler down there
, she thought, so she walked across the drive and across the open grass toward the pond.

Sunlight tap dance
d across the rippling surface and she inhaled a rich smell of water and loam.  It wasn’t the same aroma as the bayous back home but Celia liked it.  She found a spot beneath a stand of willows and sat down, arms linked around her knees.  If she had her directions right, she faced south and the west lay to her right.  A slight breeze rippled through the willow trees but otherwise it remained still and sultry.  Celia glanced off to the west and noticed the line of gathering clouds had thickened.  If she didn’t know better, she’d almost believe a mountain range loomed on the horizon.  

Despite the mugginess, she remained at the pond for more than an hour.  Drago
nflies fluttered in the air and she watched several water striders, so much like spiders, skate over the surface, darting to and fro.  No scum or green algae marred the pond and she wondered why until she noticed the small flow entering on the far side.  Celia rose and wandered over.  She leaned down and plunged her hands into it.  The icy temperature confirmed what she’d suspected—it was a spring.  Tempted to strip away shoes and socks to stick her feet into the coolness, she resisted and decided she’d head for the kitchen.

Celia skirted the pond and when she
made it around to the side closest to the house she noticed the sky. A single airplane passed above and she wondered if it might be a crop duster or just someone out for a fun flight. 
They’d better head for the airport and soon.
Most of the blue had vanished beneath the approaching dark clouds and the remaining sunlight came from the east.  Lightning forked through the coming storm and she heard the distant growl of thunder.  She picked up her pace so she could make it inside before the thunderstorm rolled across the ranch.  The wind had stilled and something about the ominous green black shade of the clouds evoked a feeling of dread.  As she passed through the stand of willows, Celia almost stumbled and she glanced down to make sure she wouldn’t trip.

A huge shadow darkened the ground beneath her feet, big enough to block the last of the sunlight.  She glanced upward and
gasped.  The largest bird she’d ever seen, black as midnight, regal as royalty, passed overheard.  Its shadow fell across where she stood and covered most of the pond as well.  The flight path dipped low enough that she caught a good view of the creature’s head and beak.  The bird’s profile had the beauty of a Michelangelo statue or an Audubon drawing.  When it flapped its gigantic wings to soar higher and faster, she heard it squawk and one large black feather drifted lazily to the ground.  It landed at her feet and although she normally wouldn’t touch something of the sort, Celia retrieved it.  The ebony feather brushed soft as silk against her palm and she decided to keep it.  She clutched it tight and craned her head to watch its flight westward, into the heart of the approaching storm.  When it vanished among the dark clouds, she dashed for the house and wondered if she’d seen the Thunderbird.

Cool air rushed her as she
moved inside, and although she’d meant to start cooking, Celia changed her mind.  She didn’t have to obey a schedule or keep to a clock so the étouffé could wait.  With her curiosity piqued about the mythical Thunderbird Angie had mentioned, she decided to set up her laptop and get connected instead.  After a little deliberation, she set up on the dining room table.  With no plans to have guests over for dinner, the large space suited her needs and within the hour, she’d managed to get connected using Angie’s notebook. She surfed the Internet to find out more about the bird while the feather, her proof, rested on the table.

More sightings than Celia could’ve guessed had been reported,
and many were recent.  So she wasn’t crazy and hadn’t imagined it.  The meaning behind the huge feathered creature varied between tribes, but most considered it a symbol of power and glory.  Some considered it the creator.  A few websites reported it as a sign of transformation or a lucky omen.  In many tribes the Thunderbird was considered the force behind thunderstorms and weather. Warlike tribes sometimes viewed it as an omen of battle but she decided they were the minority.  “It’s sacred,” Celia muttered to herself and stared at an image she brought up from a book about the legendary bird.  She searched for additional details and became so engrossed in research that she failed to notice the storm had arrived until the lights dimmed, then flickered.  She shut down her computer and headed to the kitchen, hungry now.

The room provided a number of windows, some of which faced west
, so Celia had a clear view of the weather.  Jagged streaks of light flared in the deep clouds and thunder boomed overhead with enough force to rattle dishes in the cupboards.  As the wind picked up, the trees swayed and bent in a pagan dance routine.  Celia gathered her ingredients and by the time the rain fell in sheets, she had the onions, celery, garlic, and green peppers chopped.  She managed not to nick her fingers in the process, something which made her proud because she hadn’t cooked like this in a long time.  Celia had no recipe, save the one in her head, her mother and grandmother’s recipe, handed down over generations.   She melted butter in a deep skillet and added flour to make a roux, stirring rapidly until it turned a rich, copper penny brown.  Then she added the chopped vegetables.  When they became tender, she added a bay leaf, the water, Cajun seasoning, some parsley, and the shrimp, which she’d peeled and deveined.  The mixture came to a boil and delicious aromas began to rise from the skillet.   She inhaled with pleasure as the rice cooked to perfection.

The thunder, the gusts of wind, and the heavy rain made a sort of music she worked with and by the time she sat down with her finished dish to eat, Celia decided the worst of the storm had past.
  She grabbed a spoon, tasted her efforts, and smiled.  The étouffé delivered just the right combination of spice, heat, shrimp, and Cajun flavor. It pleasured her tongue. Before she could scoop a serving into a bowl, the doorbell rang with a long melodious chime.  Out in the middle of a ranch in a very rural area, knowing no one, she expected Chuck, the ranch manager.  She doubted that Nina, the housekeeper she had yet to meet, would show up this late or in such weather.  Without fear and with total confidence that she’d open the door to find the grizzled cowboy on the porch, Celia turned the étouffé down to simmer and headed to the front door.   She put on a smile to welcome him but her mouth drooped when she saw the visitor.

He stood more than six feet tall,
with skin as bronzed as the roux she’d just made and straight black hair to his waist.  His dark jeans and midnight black shirt were plastered to his body and so wet they dripped. The garments fit tight but she imagined how he’d look in full powwow regalia.  No doubt about it, he was Native American, although she couldn’t begin to guess the tribe. Celia had always sworn she liked her men the way she took her coffee—dark, strong, and sweet.  Her unexpected visitor was all three, she thought, as she stared at him with something like wonder.  She gazed up into his mysterious dark eyes and her hunger shifted from Cajun cooking to a desire for something erotic.  He met her stare and gave it back, potent as the storm that had just passed.  “Hi, mon cher
,
what can I do for you?”

Aware she flirted, hell, even offered, Celia shouldn’t have been surprise
d when he stepped forward and without a word swept her into his arms.  He smelled, she thought, of wind and rain and the outdoors. His skin touched hers with delicious warmth.  The stranger locked her into a tight embrace as his mouth descended on hers with heat.  Her brief protest vanished in the fire his lips transferred to Celia.  Desire burned through her body with the power and speed of an out-of-control brush fire and her hands clung to his shoulders.  Every inch of her body prickled and tingled as he kissed her with considerable skill.  His mouth caressed and claimed as she yielded, her body melting.  His kiss stole her breath and made her head whirl with dizziness.  The man became the one stable fixture in her environment which shrunk to the space around them.  Everything else blurred into insignificance as she surrendered to the moment.